Series: Another Thirteen Steps: First Light
by Valyssia
Summary: ATS Stories 1 through 4: The Outsider, The Noose, Blue, and Gravity. A Season Eight inspired epic woven around some of the more interesting details from the first eleven books. *BYO Subtext*
1. The Outsider

**Summary:** Take Buffy Summers and cultivate the more egomaniacal tendencies she was displaying in Season Seven, then drop her into Season Eight. Because that only makes sense, right? We don't see some big emotional growth spurt in between the seasons. Joss just says 'you're all better now' and 'poof' like magic we have a more grounded character in Season Eight. I didn't like that, so I made snarky, sulky, separatist, socially scary Buffy come to life and I gave her a toy…one that made sense to me.

**Author's Note:** For those of you that are new to my worlds, _Thirteen Steps_ was an early attempt of mine to write Buffyverse fiction. It was pretty immature, but there was a certain charm. The setting is Season Eight.

These pieces have been entirely reworked. They bear some similarities to my previous offerings under the same titles, but make no mistake, this is all new stuff with a new plot. I attempt to work around a few of the plot flaws and retcon in Joss Whedon's world and create something quasi-original and interesting.

The first truly striking difference you'll notice is that the Buffy Summers in my world rides. I did this because it made sense to me. And because it was a combination of things I was very familiar with. They went together well.

Riding a sportbike has much in common with dancing. It's more of a full body experience than driving a car. Where you put your weight matters. I could see the combination of being grounded miles away from civilization and the influence of the Isle of Man TT filtering through into Buffy's life.

**Rating:** FRT: Contains Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested. Mild expletive use and sexual innuendo.

**Word Count:** 13,285.

**Beta Reader:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing: **Hints of Buffy/Willow, but this is way, way, way pre-slash. At this point in the story they're doing well to act like friends.

**Disclaimer: **The characters I portray are, for the most part, the intellectual property of other people and corporate entities with more money than God, but less than Bill Gates. I simply put them under a light and watch them grow. Of course, more often than not, being the juvenile delinquent I am, that light is focused by a magnifying glass and what really grows are smoke and embers.

**Dedication: **It's a really special thing when you find someone that believes in you. I've been blessed with a few. My friend De is one such a person. Rewriting this piece is a tiny token of gratitude. The _Thirteen Steps_ series is still lists among her favorites. God knows why. Giving her something fresh and new, but at the same time old and familiar was the least I could do.

* * *

**The Outsider**

* * *

Dammit!

I pull out the drawer of my nightstand and drop it on the bed, leaning over to rifle through the contents for the tenth time tonight. It's not here. This is where it should be.

Dammit!

Stooping, I open the cabinet underneath in hopes the little blue bastard slipped over the back of the drawer and fell. No such luck.

Dammit!

I've looked through everything in this stupid room twice. This is _so_ not fair!

Inspiration hits and I drop to the floor. Maybe it's under the bed?

But _no_…

All I find is darkness and a few dust bunnies. I should really clean under here.

Not now.

Later.

Y'know…it'd be just peachy if one part of my life would normal up. But do I ever get normal?

Pretty much never.

I tried like hell to force normalcy for awhile. It was a complete waste of time. The minute something enters my world, it just goes all 'Twilight Zone.' Or worse 'Tales from the Crypt.'

I guess it's just me. It's not like there's tons of other working theories. I'm the one constant. And the weirdness definitely sticks…like stink on a Britney Spears perfume ad.

I had to move to Scotland to get that. In Sunnydale it was simple enough to blame it on the Hellmouth. We're sorta Hellmouthless in musty ol'. Yet here I am and the creature feature…it just keeps playing, right along with all the associated hijinks.

But not just…

No, we're actually dumb enough go looking for it. Like this is how I want to spend my life.

Thing is, I don't get a choice. Or if we voted, I missed it.

That's another theme I'm a little sick of.

It's funny, when I turned my home into a great big, gaping pit, I sorta saw an end. That plan…

I was _so_ totally snowed.

Silly me!

I should _so_ have a mascot, or some sort of announcer. That little Crypt Keeper guy would be pretty cool. I could have him follow me around and read 'off-camera' commentary, announcing the current bad. It's not like things could get much more bizarre. Considering the normal level of weird, he'd go totally unnoticed. And I'd have a clue what to expect.

But I guess that's Xander's job. He's lots less creeptastic than that Serling guy…or even the spooky little Muppet.

So, what kind of moron brands a sunrise on his chest? Or lets himself get branded?

Maybe that was a sunset?

Sunset?

_Setting sun_…?

Oh! The Chemical Brothers. I could go for—

Nah. That song has some really weird harmonics that are pretty hard to get past. Like I'm not already…

I'd hit something.

I rise to survey the wreck that is my room. All the junk from my closet's now on my couch. Or pretty much all of it. There's not really a piece of furniture that's not buried in the debris that is me…or the remnants of my screwy, twisted, messed up life.

It looks like hurricane Buffy blew through, gale force winds and all. She's one of the more destructive forces I know. She has this gift for driving people away and laying waste to…umm—well, rooms and pretty much anything else in her path.

I used to be so neat—kinda compulsively so. But you have to care for that.

And I really don't.

I wish I could.

Military idiots, that's what kind. Boy, that sounds promising. Like we don't already have enough—

I just don't see why when something like this happens we have to instantly snap to some huge conspiracy. Why can't it be a tiny conspiracy just this once?

Why can't this be a couple wigged fanboys with too much time on their hands and a soldering iron? They went off their meds or took too many and listened to the ultra-rare, super duper, double top secret dub of Setting Sun 'Nails on a Chalkboard'—the one that's rumored to make cats howl too—remixed for but never released with the wildly unsuccessful, largely ignored, completely unknown indie film The Devil Ate My Underpants. It liquefied their brains and badness ensued.

_Yeah._ That makes perfect sense. All better. Now I can relax.

Or not.

In the bed, maybe?

'Kay, so…not exactly a fortune cookie, but…

That's another thing I don't get. Why can't a song just be a song? Even if it's a really good song, why do I need a dozen different copies of it? Why not just the one and call it—?

When I grab the covers by the bottom and rip them down, the drawer goes flying.

Oops!

Uh…

Like everything else that went badly. Oh well…

I toss my pillows aside.

Nope. Not in the bed. No cookies for me.

It's official. My room's a total disaster and I'm no closer to…

Y'know…it'd be nice to have a little human contact that didn't involve hitting or kicking. That's all I've got. I train with the girls, or slay stuff. There's nothing else.

Slowly turning, I survey the wreckage. It's not like I'm asking for much. Last I checked I wasn't totally trollsome. Actually, I'm pretty good at that stuff…

Or I was before Famine, Petulance and Death.

Trouble is…

I'm trapped here where everyone sees me as this thing—this leader thing, 'General Buffy.'

Yup, that's me.

My gaze drifts over the picture above my desk. I've looked at it so much that, even after I stop looking, I still see it. I have every detail memorized. No idea why, but it grabs my attention. I return to it and fixate, staring intently into our smiling faces.

The Scoobies.

We're not that anymore. What we are is way different. We're each an island unto ourselves.

How was I happy?

Actually, that was the last time, one last genuine smile.

It was also the last time I saw my best friend. The person I was supposed to share this little shindig with. I don't even know where she is. She dropped off the map. I guess I want too much. She has Ken to share stuff with. That's what's right. I shouldn't expect her to keep hanging on.

My friends all went 'poof.' And now all I have is 'yes, ma'am,' 'no, ma'am' and other assorted, equally scary shit…

Since when did I become ma'am-worthy? I mean, I get the 'store clerk' thing. They're sorta supposed to call you 'ma'am.' But _everyone_ calls me 'ma'am' now. I just don't get it. It's like I suddenly became…

But I suppose that's just another symptom of the same disease.

If I show anything else—another face, if I sink to their level, I blow that…along with all their ridiculous expectations. So I'm pretty much stuck and fu…

Eh…

Or not…

That's a big part of the problem.

I chuckle.

It's not a happy sound. Bitter and cynical are way more like it. The sound actually makes me shiver. It's pretty bad when you can make yourself shiver with a laugh.

Only twenty-four and already type-cast. There's no one outside this life: the slaying gig. If there was, I might have some hope.

Yeah…I'm pretty much hopeless.

I don't get to be human. I've been railroaded into a sitch where I'm an icon. I'm about as real to these people as a statue.

Maybe that's it.

I replace myself with a statue. She…er, uh…_it_ could do the job. Then I could run off and get a real life.

Uh, yeah…it's not like that's a new trick. Too bad that stupid robot got scraped.

I wonder whether they'd notice. Maybe, but it might take them a while.

They're not the brightest crayons in the box.

I should chill. That wasn't nice.

Dawn could be right. Running away might just be my best trick. It's certainly easier than dealing.

And on that cheery note, it's time to hit the big red button.

I'd have bailed six months ago without one. Just me, a backpack and the road. That idea still holds a certain appeal. I doubt 'responsible for me and me alone' ever will. Lose its appeal, that is…

Dodging piles of junk, I cross the room and grab my jacket off the back of the desk chair. When I snatch up my helmet and start for the door, a timid peck of a knock freezes me dead in my tracks. I glance around at my trash heap one more time.

It's probably one of the girls wanting…

Oh, who knows?

Half of them look at me like they're star-struck, moon-eyed cattle.

Instead of following my first impulse—bursting through the door and pushing past whoever's bent on bothering me—I go and answer it.

Stupid me.

The 'Island of Xander' greets me, looking concerned.

Shit!

I knew it! I should've followed my instincts! They're usually right…like a little too disturbingly so in a self-preservationy sense.

I wipe the surprise off my face and give him a good, solid, 'what the hell do you want' glower.

Social call?

Not likely. That'd actually be friendly.

He hasn't visited on anything unofficial in…

I don't even remember.

You can pretty much bet this is a 'job related' thing too and I'm so not in the mood. If they expect me to slay something else, I may just start with him.

He comes out of the gates sheepish. "We should, uh…" circling the drain "…er…I-I'd _like to_ talk, umm…that is if you're…uh…" and finally trailing off to total mush after he gets a good look at what's left of my room.

That's right, Xander…

I don't give him an inch. He doesn't deserve it. If I still have a friend left in this hell, it's him, but… "Not so much," I mutter. It's a solid footnote to the essay.

Hints never come easy to Xander. Poor guy's just missing the interpreter. Somehow, out of that monosyllabic scrap of nothing, he sees an invite. And that was about as uninvitey as I get. But brave or clueless, he pushes past me, picking his way across the fallout to sit on the one piece of furniture not consumed by my quest, the desk chair. As he moves, I follow him with my eyes, putting on my best glare, the one I reserve for things that are gonna fertilize the roses.

Totally oblivious…

Speaking of _bright crayons_, Xander's pretty much burnt umber, raw sienna, or one of those other equally drab, totally neglected shades. The ones we never used. They'd be all nice and pointy while the yellow, corn flower and carnation pink were nubs.

Well, I can't exactly slay him for being burnt umber.

After setting my helmet at my feet, I slip on my jacket, hoping he'll take a clue. No such luck. With all the savvy of a blind person at a silent film, he mumbles, "What's up, Buff?"

That's it! Burnt umber or not, he's gonna die.

I stare at him in disbelief from my place by the door and grumble, "What do you mean, 'what's up'? I thought you had something when you said 'we should talk'."

And what possesses me—why I stay—again, I'm as freaking clueless as he is. I should really turn and walk away. It'd be so much safer. Am I really that hard up for company, companionship, commiseration, or what-the-hell-ever?

Maybe.

He doesn't see me as the second coming and that's a step up from my usual.

In spite of myself, I sigh.

Finally firming up, he lifts his hands, gesturing surrender. He offers in a weak voice, "I'm just worried about you, 'kay?" There's something almost pitying about his tone. It makes my skin crawl.

Jeez…

I suppress yet another urge to bolt. That'd be the smart thing. But since when do I…?

He motions to the bed.

We'll assume he means well and look on the bright side. It'll be almost like old times, something a little nostalgic.

Yeah, uh…

And could I sound more deluded?

I close the door, cross the room and sit on my bed, placing my helmet next to me. I may need it. You just never know. Besides, it makes a functional armrest. Bailing would still be the best plan. Instead, the 'stupid' streak holds and I get comfy, putting my armrest to use.

This ends when he gives me actual pity. I'll take his head off. I could use a new candleholder. Xander's skull would make a good one.

Expectant looks are all I have. This is his show. If it does anything besides spiral, that'll all be on him.

"It's just…" he begins lamely.

And we start with the swirl action. I sigh, this time sounding miffed.

Taking a deep breath, he summons a little resolve and tries again. "It's just that you've been—well, you haven't been around. And when you have…" He clears his throat. Total nervous tic, but I give him the benefit of the doubt. "I'm worried, okay? Is there something I can do?"

Your benefit period just expired.

It's a bit late to make with the grand gestures. Maybe six months ago when I could still smile without feeling like a total hypocrite, but now?

Uh…

"Nothing," I mutter. It's all I've got, really. My home's gone. My family…uh, well, there's Dawn, but jeez is she ever a freakishly economy-sized mess. My friends…

This is beginning to look a lot like that one kid's science fair project. I think we were in eighth grade. Who knew a sterilized jar full of beans could explode? It was just plain gross. Class became an outdoor thing that day.

In keeping, it might be time for this class to move outside.

Forgetting himself, Xander whispers under his breath, "I knew this wouldn't be eas—" His voice fails when I narrow my eyes. Could be he's forgetting me. Hearing's not one of my issues. There are tons of others, but…

My glare's back and I didn't even put it there. It just happened.

His IQ climbs twenty points, or so it seems. He drops his attention to the clothes strewn all over the floor by my bed.

I say, "If this isn't easy, whose fault is that?" It's a warning. One that's not really necessary.

He finds something interesting to stare at. No clue what. My luck, it's probably one of my few remaining friends. Go figure, they're all made of plastic and metal. There's no substance. No troublesome personalities to cope with.

"It's just you've been really closed off," he mumbles, "I've been sorta worried that something's up—something bigger."

"Look, Xander, I appreciate the effort," I reply. Then I think better of the platitude and amend, "No, actually I don't. What I'd appreciate is being left alone. Face it, you're late. Nothing new."

His attention snaps to me. He gives me an incredulous glare and grumbles, "Late? How can you be…?" Lucky for him, his voice peters out again. That might've been the proverbial straw.

But I can't resist. I need him to finish. Venomously, I encourage him. "How can I be what?"

Throwing down might be just what the doctor ordered. Screaming at someone—someone who desperately deserves it—might just save Giles thousands in therapist bills.

Like I give a shit.

Of course, there are the other bills to consider. I wonder what it costs to set a broken nose. We may just find out.

Magically, he finds his voice. "How can you be so dense?" It's a beautiful thing when Xander gets brave. Y'know all hope's pretty much gone. He has to be 'back against the fence' screwed to be this bold.

Nothing left to lose.

I raise an eyebrow. If I were standing, my hand would be on my hip. I'm half tempted to put it there anyway, but I'd just look dumb. "Dense?" It's the question of the minute.

All fire and brimstone, he retorts, "Yeah…_dense_. You heard me."

I giggle. I can't help it. He's like one of those yappy little dogs. Somewhere inside, he knows he's playing with something that might just get him squished. He should be pissing himself. Thankfully, at least for my poor chair, he stands his ground.

I can kinda respect that.

Not hard to predict, the giggle isn't helpful.

He gains steam, working toward a full rant. "How can you—?" an exasperated gasp slips out "—you—" he rubs his cheek "—you're the one who shut us out!" His hand drops to his lap.

It's my turn for incredulous. But somewhere in the back of my mind there's this annoying nag: He's got a point. Dammit! So not helpful. It just makes me madder.

I put the impassive mask back on. But it's too late. He sees my tell and reacts. Almost eerily calm, he remarks, "You started building your own personal 'Fortress of Solitude' back in Sunnydale. You _do_ remember that, right?" Pausing, he examines me for signs of stress. There's lots of stress, but I don't give him that.

"I don't need to explain, do I? You get it," he murmurs, scruffling his five o'clock shadow thoughtfully. "I bet you feel abandoned, don't you? That's a natural reaction." As the study continues, I start to feel like a particularly interesting exhibit. His eyes narrow before he adds the real gem. "But you don't get to feel abandoned, Buffy. Not since you pushed us away."

It's insult to injury time. I spring off the bed, helmet in hand. I always thought this thing would make a good cudgel. Never tried it. Might just be time.

The distance separating us evaporates before he can flinch. Locking eyes with him, I reach across and collect another little metal friend, my iPod. I can't forget my iPod. It's been better to me than he has. Still glaring, I put the earbuds in and turn it on before I pocket it.

Music.

I don't even care what music.

I whisper, "If it makes you feel any better, you can blame me." My voice is a little shocking, even to me. Broken, raspy and not quite right, it's almost tearful. I couldn't find tears now if I tried. It sure does a number on Xander. He looks like I feel…only more…

He flinches when I reach across him. All I do is set my helmet down and collect a hair tie from a small glass dish. I put my hair back, remarking, "I'm used to it." I grab my helmet and give him some space. "While you're working on that careful examination of the past, you might want to remember that in nearly a year, this is the first time you've stopped by just to visit."

I'm _so_ out of here.

I turn my back on him and repeat, "Visit?" Transformed again, my voice sounds just above the level of the music, low and dangerous—more of a hiss than anything else. A cold snicker serves as perverse punctuation.

As I start for the door, he attempts to acquit himself. "This place didn't become livable on its own…" He falls flat when halfway to the door, I turn on heel.

That does it.

I close the gap between us again, muttering, "You can keep your excuses, Xander. I have about as much use for them as—" He can fill in the blank. It's not like there'll be a test.

His expression silently pleads for me to leave. Funny, that's what I've been trying to do.

I catch a piece of the song I've been ignoring. 'What'll it take to get it through to you, precious?' A humorless grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. I _so_ don't need the help. 'I'm over this. Why do you wanna throw it away like this?' And that's about enough of that. 'Such a mess. Why would I want to…?' You really wouldn't.

I reach into my coat and skip forward.

Music: this time a nice, commentary-free instrumental.

Better.

Sadly, I think the thing that made us friends was swallowed along with our home.

But really, I've always sorta thought he blamed me for Anya's death.

That'd make two of us.

And it'd explain a lot.

All of this shit's my fault, even if all I'm doing is reacting. Violence and death just follow me around like a shadow. Any friends that step into my shadow are eventually doomed to lose an eye, or worse.

So, if I'm a little standoffish…

Boy, I sound conflicted.

I want companionship. I need it. I even crave it. But it scares the hell out of me because the people I love always get hurt.

Whatever…it's better for them if they go away. I'd remove myself from the picture if I could, but there's this little issue of the epic mess I made out of a few thousand girls' lives.

Right or wrong, guilty or innocent, friend or not, it doesn't matter. He's still gonna pay.

After switching my helmet to my left hand, I reach down and grab his lapels. We might be getting to the part where he clues up and gets it figured that he's a little dog. I should put him somewhere where he can't pee on anything important.

Important?

There's no such thing.

Slowly, I drag him to his feet. He expects me to stop. I can see it in his eyes. I have a better plan. I raise my hand to eyelevel. His feet leave the ground. He's totally freaked and asking me to stop. I could give a crap.

Well, that's totally untrue, but I want him to take a hint. Subtle didn't work, so…

I move to the door and lift him up until the pleat in the back of his leather jacket snags on a coat hook. Then I let go.

Just a little reminder.

He'll be yelling in a sec. As a remedy, I crank my iPod. The heavy, driving bass provides fuel for my exit. No more delays. It's time to spend an hour or so with my only friend. If anyone can cure this rotten mood, Bernadine can.

And hey, bonus…I can't exactly get her killed.

I'll take a sec to regret this later. The regret's nothing new. I'll just add it to the pile.

Xander's eyes are wide with shock when I reach for the doorknob. He tries to grab me, but I just twist my arm free. He's not pulling himself down that way. Kicking might help, but really, screaming and waiting are his best choices.

Nicer than I want to be, I forget to turn the lock. I want him gone when I get back. If I didn't, I'd totally lock him in. As my door clicks shut, others open. The one across the hall's first. Leigh peeks out, appearing concerned. I just smirk. It's all I've got for her. You can pretty much figure Xander's the reason for the look-see. I can't hear him, but…

I set off down the hall at a brisk pace as others poke their noses out to see what's what. I'm sure they'll be talking about this for weeks, like they haven't been talking about me already. Nothing's gotten back, but they treat me like I might be a vial of Ebola at times.

There's a fine line between fear and respect. Sometimes you have to create fear in order to gain respect. I've given these girls healthy doses of both. I shouldn't be surprised about the 'ma'am' thing. I've planted their faces, asses and various parts on the ground so many times…

You'd think they'd learn, but it's like they're Scotchguarded against it.

As I hit the stairs, I reach into my coat and bump the volume down. A couple of the younger slayers steer wide to avoid me. Fear: I see it in their eyes. They're really green and still training with their peers. When they get to me, I'll be happy to introduce them to their fear. Better me than some demon. They'll live longer if I can teach them how to face it.

Making a quick left, I burst through the doorway into the main lobby. There are a few girls seated around the room on the various couches. When I enter, the room goes dead. But it's like their voices hang in the cavernous hall for a second after I enter. I can almost hear their cheerful banter. Isolated, apart from that, what I get are a few more fearful looks. I shrug them off.

Nothing new.

That's really what this little concentration camp's about, teaching them the skills to keep them alive. I don't need any more blood on my hands. It doesn't matter how much I shower now, I never feel clean. There are deaths almost weekly because of what I did.

Pushing the doors aside, I step out into the brisk night air. Scotland. I draw in a deep breath. The air's heavy and fragrant with woodsy smells. There's no moon, but the stars are breathtaking. I'm not really used to stars. Even after all this time, they still catch me by surprise. You don't see them much in Southern California. They kinda get blotted out by the city lights reflecting off the smog layer.

Whose idea was Scotland anyway?

No clue, probably Giles. He'd want me close, but not too close.

Pretty lame.

Why am I just getting around to asking?

Yeah.

I just went where I was sent.

There's a path, but I never bother. I jog across the small lawn and weave through a clump of trees that separate me from the stable. There's something good about being outside, even here and now in this entropically conjured hell.

Swinging the stable doors open, I set my eyes on my one true friend. She's kind of ugly, in a really pretty sorta way.

That doesn't make sense.

It's just, if you place the Ducati nine-nine-nine next to its peers, there's something kind of off about it. The lines aren't quite swoopy enough, the angles wrong. It looks a little chunky. Poor Bernie's even got a fat ass. She's not a classic beauty.

Quirky.

I think that covers it. She's quirky.

Weird, when you look at the nine-nine-six, but it's all about the designer. Just like with fashion.

I back my counterpart out of the stall and turn her around. When she's pointed down the path, I hop on and dig her key out of my jeans pocket. After placing it in the ignition, I put my helmet on.

I wanted the Aprilia or the MV, but Giles took one look and Bernie was it. He muttered something about the dangers involved and looked at the numbers. After I pointed out the 'me, backpack, road' formula, Bernie won the British codger award as the least dangerous of the bunch. Like there's a real diff. The Duc just doesn't look as aggressive.

I'm sort of glad Bernie won the toss. We match. She's damned sexy, but a little off.

When I tap the starter button, she rumbles to life and a little tingle flows down my spine. Unlike the earlier tweak, this one's the right kind. A faint vibration between my thighs is the only sign I have that she's alive. I reach into my pocket and turn down my iPod. It's great for tuning stuff out, but…

I run my fingers over the gas tank. It's a bit silly to pet a machine, but I cuddled a stuffed pig for years too. I'm failing to really see the diff.

Reaching for the clutch, I flip the side stand up and put Bernie into gear. This is always the fun part. Wet grass is our friend. Carefully feathering the clutch and throttle, I get going without that annoying 'sideways' thing that sometimes happens. It's fun, but it's also scary, just like me.

I maneuver down the cobblestone path and onto the driveway.

I can't touch Bernie without seeing their faces. None of my _friends_ were convinced. I think Will still has night terrors over Mom's jeep.

That was bad. This isn't.

Beauty.

It's a really subjective thing.

Will's one of the most beautiful women I know. She's just—

When I hit the drive, things get dicey. They always do. Weaving the width of the asphalt strip, I clean and warm the tires.

Yeah.

'Clean' and 'warm.' There's an excuse to play if I've ever heard one, but it sounds convincing.

On the fifth curve, I snap the bike upright and channel all the bad into a twist of the wrist and a slip of the clutch. The front end lofts, just a little. I keep it in check with the clutch. It hovers a couple feet off the pavement as I launch forward.

Gone.

It's that.

That's why this works for me. Nothing else did, but _this_ works. I'm connected…connected to something that's doing eighty-five miles-an-hour on a narrow strip of asphalt. Correction, one-hundred…

And I feel alive.

The cool air gets icy quick, but I don't care. My hands and throat sting. And somehow, even past all the plastic, the wind cuts through my jeans like they aren't even there. I just do what I'm best at, I ignore the bad. If I couldn't do that, my life would suck beyond the telling. It doesn't. Not really.

Shifting, I back off the throttle as I start the descent from the castle. Bernie makes this funny chugging noise when the engine's loaded. All I know is, it sounds like she wants more. I pop her up into the next gear to reduce the urge and the drag.

Up another gear and go for option 'B.' The instant I sit up, the wind catches me, pushing me back, or trying…and causing the bike to slow. If Giles had a clue that the poster girl for 'Slayer Inc.' was fucked up enough to close her eyes and take her hands off the bars, it'd give him a coronary. The slowing continues as I grip the tank with my knees to hold on and extend my arms.

I need a throttle lock.

Oh, that'd really make him faint. He has this delusion that I'm an angel unless someone here's cleared that up for him. I went through every safety course known to man. And nowhere did they say this was good.

Imagine that.

It's kind of kitchy 'Titanic,' but this just feels amazing. It's almost like falling, only not. I'm sort of going the wrong way. It's an almost horizontal—descending down the driveway from the castle—freefall. There just aren't enough freefalls in life.

Beauty.

The prettiest girl in the world can make herself ugly. It's all about what you do. It took me years to get that through to Will. I'm not even sure it was me. She might've missed my message, but she totally got the message. Last time I saw her…

Umm…

Time, yeah…out of time. I open my eyes. The bike's drifted just a little to the right. Typical. I grab the bars and center it in the lane.

I'd do that again, but it's almost time to dance. Reaching into my pocket, I bump up the volume on the iPod and zip my jacket. It's damned cold out here.

Dropping down two gears, I open the throttle. Last time I hit this first corner at eighty-fiveish no problem. I think I can go ninety and it'll be fine. Pouring on the speed, I position the bike at the right edge of the narrow lane.

At the entrance of the turn, I let off the throttle and grab the front brake, brushing the back with my right toe. The front end dips slightly and I glance at the speedo, ninety-twoish?

Time to throw down or die.

Either's fine by me.

This makes no sense to me, but I do it anyway 'cause it works. Maybe one day, I'll get to ask Will why…

I turn right to go left.

Yeah, uh…

It works. The bike leans and I shift my weight in the saddle. The angle of my wrist naturally sorta opens the throttle. I don't really have to pay much attention. It's all about feel. When the bike starts to drift, it's really nifty. That's the goal, a controlled slide. The back always breaks free first. With a little more, just a touch, the front gets that nice wishy-washy feeling.

The rest is all about setting your line, or so they say. You straighten out the corner, outside to inside and back to outside. But halfway through, I'm way out of shape. I should be on the left side of the lane, not in the middle.

Or die…

If I die, the advanced class will be bruise-free tomorrow evening. They may even thank me.

Well, maybe not, but…

In the past, I've had trouble staying dead, so it's kinda hard to say.

As I gently apply the brakes to scrub off some speed, I shift my weight. My entire body's off the bike. I feel like a circus performer, hanging from a trapeze. If I moved my shoulder down just smidge more, it'd brush pavement.

Not gonna do that.

Steering any more would put me on the ground too. This is gonna be close.

Constant, even throttle…I don't need more speed. But I do need to keep this balancing act up. It's a precarious thing. Sharp movements pretty much equal badness.

Drifting and shifting, I slide to the very edge of the lane.

And it's over.

As I center the bars and side my ass back into the seat, I suck in a deep, shaky breathe. One second to relax and take pleasure in a job well done, then on to the next.

Y'know, the whole unsticky deadness thing was because of my friends. I'm sorta missing those, so…

Besides, I think Will used up all her badass wicca points with Osiris last time around.

I may actually be on the last of my nine lives. But there were only three. I wonder if I should feel gypped.

I don't even bother to look at the speedo this time. It feels right. That's what matters. This is about feel. It's a dance, just like flirting and moving with the music. I could flirt like this if there was anyone to flirt with.

Naturally, I'm alone. That's pretty much my life. Even when I'm around others, I'm alone.

Shifting down, I find my lane position, this time on the left edge, steering left to go right. That'll probably always tickle me. It speaks volumes to how I live. Sliding my ass in the saddle, I play pendulum. 'Buffy the amazing counterweight,' that's me. But on Bernie, that's my job. Every part of me matters. I provide ballast and balance for a delicate waltz.

The headlight illuminates a patch of forest. I peer off into the trees as I dangle from my trapeze.

This time everything's perfect. I apply throttle, building speed. Rationally, I know I am, but the world around me's crawling. When I reach the right edge of the lane, the inside of the corner, I glance down. Grass, grayed out in the low light, rushes under my shoulder. I shouldn't be able to, it makes no sense that I can, but I pick out the individual blades.

My attention shifts again, along with my body, the bike, the dance. Repeating the steps, this time I go left. This corner's not as tight as the other two. I can relax. Go faster. There's no deceleration, no need to scrub off speed. I can let go.

And I do. Shifting down, I open the tap. Bernie, unlike the others, just does what I ask. _Exactly _what I ask. If anything goes wrong, it won't be her fault. It'll be mine.

The big problem is this one's the last one. There's a short straightaway, then a long, sweeping left, then highway. If I don't slow down at the end of this corner, I get to experience highway as a passing, or maybe that'd be a _crossing_ thing. It's kind of a shame. I hate it when fun stuff ends.

There's the ditch to consider and the trees if it does become a 'crossing' thing. There's a certain splat factor. My luck, I'd time it just wrong and get hit by a truck.

I really wish I could care.

I glance at the speedo as I enter the bend, one-thirty. And if I stopped to think, I might realize just how nuts this is.

Not stopping.

Steering the wrong way, playing trapeze artist, shifting gears and twisting my wrist are all preferable activities.

Battered by the wind at one-thirty-five and moving at a standstill, I look down. This time what I see is a blur of blackness, like I'm hanging over an abyss. It's beautiful. I have trouble taking my eyes off the nothing. I want to let go and fall.

I don't.

Really, I couldn't do that to Xander. He'd blame himself…or some part of him would. Maybe tomorrow I'll get to see what's down there, but tonight…

I tear my gaze from the hazy darkness.

And not a moment too soon. I'm almost out of road.

How far can I push this?

One-thirty-eight…and suspended in a tunnel. The trees on the side of the road are nothing but streaks of gray and black.

The world's catching up with me.

Reality check: if I brake now, I may not die.

I do.

One-twenty-five and counting down…

Shifting down…

I position myself in the middle of the seat and clamp the tank with my knees. Even if I am still turning, the sharp deceleration threatens to tear me off my perch. All of the weight's thrown forward. I run out of corner and center everything. When the bike rights itself, I drop another gear.

It's almost over.

As I grip the front brake like a vice, it's no surprise that the back end lifts. I let off to bring it down and clamp the lever again. It's another balancing act.

Downshift and hang on.

Almost outta road.

One-twenty-five to twenty-five in…jeez, I dunno, but it's…

It's not quite enough.

It's also late enough that there's pretty much no traffic. A snap decision sends me left. I drop the bike into a low, graceful turn rather than put it in the ditch. It's the better choice.

Once I'm headed in the better direction, I just keep going. Another twist of the wrist and I'm on my way, just like that was planned.

Planning's so overrated…

The music that was drowned out by noise is now crisp and happy. I'm not even sure what it is, some girl band. Probably something one of the slayerettes gave me. It makes me smile nonetheless.

My heart pounds against my ribs. It's weird to actually feel it. Poor thing might just explode.

That'd be fine too.

Note to self: ninety-twoish is a wee bit fast. I'll try something sub-ninety next time. Might be safer. That and one-thirty-eight's a good way to die. If it'd been daytime, I'd have ended up a hood ornament.

The road's impossibly flat and straight for the first mile or so. It makes me twitchy, but I have to behave. Sixty-miles-an-hour, poor Bernie feels like a lion pacing her cage. I'm right there with her. It'd suck to be stuck on the driveway. Neiman's is having a sale next week.

Shoe sales. Now there's a reason to live. All I have to do is watch the paper and I'll always be set. There'll always be another. It's the order of things. Continuing commerce is one of the few certainties in this morally bankrupt world.

Or simpled up, everyone wants to make a buck.

What am I doing?

Well, besides getting farther from my erroneous home…

Clueless.

But _farther's_ good…

I didn't bother with a playlist. I really should've. So what I end up with is musical potpourri. Another girl band comes on, this one's different, angrier, but it works. The Distillers maybe? It sounds like them. L.A. indie music just makes me miss home that much more. For some reason, girl punk bands always do.

I wonder why.

Sarcasm's supposed to be one of the lowest forms of humor. It's right at home with prayer and terrorism as last recourses of the desperate. Little wonder that I'm so good at it. If prayer gets you nowhere—it never does—and you can't resort to violence, try a little snark. It always keeps 'em guessing.

But there's only so much snark. And when it runs out, the guilt usually sets in. I get quiet enough and the first thing that pops into my damaged brain is Xander. He was terrified. Does that mean he doesn't trust me?

Probably…

And not without reason.

He's not the one who's spiraling.

I am.

Worse, I get that I am. I even get why. It sucks to be conscious, cognizant, conscientious…all those c-words and more. It makes me appreciate the appeal of drugs and alcohol. Not that I could, but I totally get it.

A drunk slayer just isn't pretty. I've been there. I left a trail of broken stuff, like bread crumbs. Only it wasn't just glasses, ashtrays and the expected breakable stuff. No, stylish me, I broke the usually unbreakable, or the sorta stuff people don't worry about. There were doors and even a wall. It was bad.

Oh, and speaking of bad, we can't forget the 'cave slayer' incident. Four years later, I'm still trying to live that one down. With Xander around, it's impossible. Stuff like that's irresistible to him. He regales the girls with amusing tales of my past debauchery. It's his brand of flirting.

No wonder I have to scare the hell out of them to earn their respect, what with Xander working as my counteragent.

The first mile or so of gray concrete rolls by along with one long, featureless corner. I'd have to flirt with jail time to really enjoy it. Avoiding jail's a good. So I lie listlessly suspended in a bubble of plastic and feminist rage. But I just can't shake Xander. Despite everything, I still see his fear. I can practically smell it.

I assaulted him for telling the truth. Rational, prudent and fair…that's me.

And just when things couldn't be better, the iPod bites my ass too. The misandry gives way to melancholy. I'm too damned lazy, not to mention cold, to unzip my jacket and skip forward.

Like a good little masochist, I don't just ignore it, I sing along. "But I'm still right here, giving blood, keeping faith…" I'm probably the only idiot in history to ever cry to a Tool song. Sad, I recognize it. I'm not even sure how I got it. I must've liked one thing and ended up with the entire CD. That happens to me. By the refrain, I want to rip off the headphones and throw them.

'Be patient.'

I forgot my backpack. I guess that means I should head back soon.

After my departure, once the seething ends, Xander will probably worry. He's been dropping subtle hints about me taking it easy. It's hard to hear stuff like that and not wonder if it's me he's worried about, or what I stand for. 'Slayer Inc.' would lose its figurehead if I wrapped myself around a tree.

Is that what's important?

To them, probably.

To me…I'm not even sure what's important to me. I used to know.

That's probably not fair.

What was it Dawn said about me? 'You're an arrogant, self-absorbed bitch. Way too wrapped up in your own drama to give a shit about how miserable you're making everyone else.' I think that was it. I'm not even sure how I replied. There's not much. I could've gone totally first grade and said, 'I am rubber and you are glue. Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.' But I think my mouth just fell open.

That's the real problem with her. She usually nails it. But there's this huge flaw in her plan. She's always more worried about how whoever—usually me—is failing her, than she is about her own crap. It's easier to point fingers, than it is to own up.

I get that I've been a bitch. The job actually demands it. I can't be nice. But there's more to it. Like the 'oh, poor me' part. That was the 'too wrapped up in your own drama' thing.

Yup, I feel sorry for myself. It's just horrible.

Really, it's tedious.

It's pretty bad when the behavior's owner finds it tedious.

Could be a sign.

So what can I do to fix it?

Get a happy?

Tried that. Didn't work. Nothing works right for me.

God, it's been so long since I was actually happy—_happy, _like really happy, I think I've forgotten how. But that's really it. I need to answer that question. What would make me happy?

And not break anything else, or accidentally cause an apocalypse. _Me happy_ might just be world endy.

Hell of a stipulation, it doesn't leave much.

Regular, this might be helpful, minus the snit. Riding pissed off may just be off the list. I got the memo. I can't handle it. Much more of that and I really will end up killing myself. I'm still not convinced that'd be bad, but it might make one or two people genuinely upset for the right reasons. There might be one or two left.

And it'd put a few of the girls back on regular duty. They'd be pissed. The one living in Paris actually likes it. But there'd be no reason for the subterfuge if I was dead.

Nah…

Giles would just keep it up and hide my death.

Boy, that makes me feel really important in the—

Uh…

Was that a city limit sign?

How fast am I…?

Oops!

Grand and schemey seem lots less important as I nail the brakes.

I was only doing double the posted limit. No big.

What town is this?

That's funny. I just passed the stupid sign. Good time to ask. Maybe I should flip a bitch and go see? It's not like breaking another law would be a bad. With any luck, this quant little hamlet doesn't have the budget for cameras. I haven't seen anything yet, but then I didn't see the city limit sign, so…

The rub, there's a cemetery off to my right, wrought iron fences and granite mausoleums. It's all spooky and stuff…like something straight out of a Tim Burton film. Mid-block, I turn onto the cobblestone drive and veer right when it splits.

Like a kid with a cookie, I just can't resist.

Now I really am being a hypocrite. I want out more than anything, but I just can't pass up a good cemetery. It's a little sick. Thing is, in a tiny place like this, one vamp could be bad. I'll write it off as a public service and call it even if they will.

I roll past row after row of mismatched headstones, some of them newish and standing, others so old they've toppled over. There are big gnarled trees here and there. Their black twisted limbs add to the creep-factor. This place is lots bigger than it looked from the street. It just kinda keeps going.

A layer of wispy fog coats the ground at first. As I travel down the slight grade, its level grows higher. It rises as I sink.

Fog in low lying areas isn't new, but soupy white fog like this…

Only in Scotland.

It adds to the Béla Lugosi theme night.

The obligatory white marble Virgin Mary effigy stands on a pedestal that's consumed by the fog, near the side street entrance. It's great. Perfect in fact. There's a layer of lichens, moss and grunge built up in its nooks and crannies that make it look like it's been here hundreds of years.

It probably has.

Ignoring my better judgment, I pass them both.

I dunno what's setting me off. I normally feel comfortable enough to picnic in places like this. It's creepy, but there's also this strange sort of beauty. The mausoleum I pass has the coolest lion-headed gargoyle on each corner, at the edge of the roof. I stare as they make my point for me.

Chills…

Weird, tingly chills…

They're annoying. Sort of Spidey sensey, only worse. _More_. And that's totally setting my teeth on edge.

I'm being watched.

Period.

But from where? I usually have an idea what direction. This isn't like that. It feels like it's all around me. It's badness.

I should bail.

What the hell does that mean? 'Setting my teeth on edge'? What retard came up with that line? Your teeth are on edge. Unless I'm missing something and they have to move to be there. If I am, and they do, it's kinda painful, not wigsome.

Or so I hear.

I snicker.

Or so I've seen.

Come to think of it, I may've set a few things' teeth on edge. Messy. And shortly after their 'on edging,' they hit the ground. The teeth and their owners.

That's it. I'm boycotting that non-sensey phrase. It's just stupid.

The rough cobblestone drive gets really decrepit at the back of the oval. I have to slow down. The bike's shaking so hard, it makes me wonder if I left the road. I haven't hit anything yet, so I'm guessing that's a 'no.'

When I glance down, I can barely see the top of the fuel tank. It's like I'm floating, but not. The _not_: my jeans are getting damp from the fog. It sucks.

It'll suck more when I leave.

I'm not used to it being so dark outside. There's no light, except for my headlamp. That's it. It casts an eerie glow beneath the fog. Thick cloud cover's pretty much killed the stars. There are a few patches where they show through. But this little adventure entered the realm of the bad horror flick a couple of tombstones back and it's not getting any better.

I refuse to become the token squeaky girl you wanna slap. Misfit I am, I always took some sort of perverse, silent pleasure in her death. It meant an end to the whining. The movie always got better after that. Not that horror flicks are ever good, but annoyance always improves with its absence.

Anyway, if I were in the role of the screamer, the pissing and moaning would've started before I passed Mother Mary back there. I'm practically shivering from the severe wiggage. Ignoring my internal badness meter isn't good.

So what do I do? That's right. Once the road evens out to something a little less washboard-like, I stop.

I may be able to nail down another one of my many issues.

I like being scared. It gives me a happy.

Yeah, I'm a little twisted.

Moving on…

I shut Bernie off, remove my helmet and grab the key. It bugs me that there's no good place for my helmet. I put the sidestand down and perch it on the top of the fuel tank. It could be worse, at least it's flat.

After pocketing the key, I reach into my coat and turn down my iPod. When I withdraw my hand, I'm armed. It's crazy, but I never go anywhere without a stake. I even take one to the mall with me. That's a little wrong, but…

I guess it's not as nuts as it sounds. There are wardrobe limitations to riding. It's not like I have twenty jackets I feel comfortable doing this in. There are two and both have stakes that live in them. I forget to take them out.

Not that I've met any omnipresent vamps. This is something way different. 'Armed' is totally relative. I may just be walking into the proverbial gunfight with a piece of wood.

Oh, well…

If I'm gonna be that Kelly Bundy, I may as well get a move on.

Standing on the pegs, I swing my leg over Bernie's fat rear. I put a little spin and a bounce into my dismount so I land a few feet away. Up to my waist in fog, I start off, heading for the middle of the cemetery. The darkness is really oppressive. I have to practically move at a crawl, cautiously picking my way through the graves.

'Kay, so…standard solo patrol. It's been awhile, but it'll probably come back to me. It's a lot like riding a bike, right?

I glance over my shoulder. All I can see is the very top of my helmet and Bernie's windscreen. It may be fun finding her again if this gets any worse.

There's a landmark. Just a little bit off the road, a huge mausoleum blocks my path. It's big enough to be a family crypt, or the vampire Hilton.

Nothing changes.

But I'm not sure if the massive prickly badness is throwing everything else off. That thing could be crammed full of vamps and it wouldn't feel this wrong.

And making things all that much better…my iPod develops a sense of humor. As I round the crypt, 'Staring at the Sun' by The Offspring comes on. Snarky punk music…exactly what I need. Thanks.

After removing my headphones, I reach into my coat to stash them and turn my cranky little friend off. When I look up, still moving and—like a good slayer—paying more attention to my clothes than what's around me, something catches my eye. I fixate on it.

A marble angel looms in the distance. It's huge, at least double normal people size.

And it's beautiful.

Most of the stuff I've seen like this has been sorta cheruby. Pudgy, childish faces. This isn't. This graveyard's guardian is like a classic representation of Michael or Gabriel. A holy warrior, complete with a big stone sword. He stands with his feet dipped in the pool of fog. His wings wrap around him, framing his muscular body.

Not paying nearly enough attention to anything else, I inch toward him.

Y'know…they went all out dipping into the pool of iconic Christian imagery, but I haven't seen one cross. 'Kay, well, there may've been one on a headstone, but…

It'd be nice if they firmed up and took a clue. A big ass cross would be so much more useful than Gabri—

I glance down just in time. Walking over the vamp who's digging his way out of the ground is badness.

Not to mention, just plain graceful.

Reflexively, I say, "Oh, hi…" sounding a little too cheerful as I scan the tombstone to find his name "…uh, Sean." Sean _Harris_, born in seventy-nine…died, umm…two days ago. _Huh_, if it's not one Harris, it's another. He's only a few years older than us.

And he's stuck.

It happens.

I giggle and offer him a hand. His hands are all grubby and bloody, but I ignore it. I've been there. It sucks. When he takes hold, I shake first and pull next. Good manners are still a thing. Whatever's holding him snaps; a root, the coffin lid maybe? With it gone, the pulling's lots easier. I say, "Pleased to meet you, my name's _Buffy_," still sounding too damned cheery.

Whatever. I get him to his feet.

Poor guy. He's kinda little for a guy, but not bad looking. Or I guess he's not bad looking. It's hard to tell with the bumpies. He's also really confused, not to mention hungry. They're usually hungry. Digging out of a grave isn't easy.

Right on top of him like this, my Spidey sense sorta works. I can kinda feel the bad through all the other bad. It's unnerving, but I do the other thing I'm good at. I tune it all out and plaster on my best smile.

Funny how my two real skills involve ignoring stuff that bugs me. Or maybe it's just one big skill and lots of multitasking.

Not much of a talker, this one. His interest sets on my throat.

Yeah, this is gonna be one of those. Sean's a little stupid. It's advice time. Maybe he'll firm up long enough to listen. "Sean, look at me." It'd help. I snap my fingers in front of his face and trace a line between our eyes. When I have his attention, I say, "You wouldn't believe the night I've had. Have you ever jumped out of a helicopter?"

Still dumb as a post, but he manages to shake his head.

It's progress.

Pouring on the casual, I comment, "It's really fun. I'd recommend it. But something tells me you're not gonna get the chance." Stopping to fold my arms, I explain, "I'm gonna give you a sec to realize that you're still sorta…" Totally expected, I sidestep his lunge and keep talking, "Well, you're still _kind of_ alive…" I track the sprawling vamp's fall. "…but not in the strictest sense." He hits a headstone. It looks painful.

"You still have motor functions at least," I remark with a smile. It doesn't last. They never do. And I bet this one looks wolfish and maybe a little smug. If there's a threat here, it sure isn't Sean.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" I murmur. He deserves a little sympathy.

He flounders onto his back and peers up at me like I just grew another head. Nodding feebly, he mutters, "Yes."

Despondent's a funny look with the fangs and the yellow eyes. Who thought he'd make a good vamp? Someone had to, what with the…

Yeah, he needs a little slack. I extend my hand down. I could just dust him. It wouldn't be hard. That might even be the kind thing to do. Instead, I help him up and continue my thought, "I'm gonna give you a head start."

He doesn't move, so I ask, "Oh, by the way. Where am I?" I grin. And once I get started, my mouth keeps running. "I'm just sorta curious. Clueless too. I usually don't come out this way. Anything worth doing's sort of the other way." It's a major flaw. One I should work on.

Someday.

When he answers with more mindless gawking, I get annoyed. "You _do_ know where you were buried, right?"

"Cloyntie," he mumbles. It's huge progress, but he's still not moving.

As I reach out, snatching his lapels and jerking him closer, I plunge the stake into his chest.

The pain gets his attention. Finally, real progress.

I pull the stake out and drive my point home. "Next time I won't miss."

Pain can be an amazing motivator. Sean takes off like there's something truly scary on his six.

He's got no clue…and I'm not gonna help him out.

I reach into my coat and pull out my iPod. After navigating to a playlist called 'Slay,' I put the earphones in, turn up the volume, pocket my iPod and zip my jacket.

I need to come up with something slightly more imaginative to call this.

Whatever…it works. Burn by Three Days Grace sets the mood, my pace…it's amazing when rock bands actually remember that they're rock bands. Good stuff.

I break into a full run in Sean's wake, vaulting over row after row of granite slabs. He's just too stupid to live. But if he does, I could set him up with Harm. They'd be like the perfect couple.

Too bad for Harm, he barely makes it to the road before I dive after him. Catching the backs of his legs, I throw us both face-first onto the ground. The diff? I roll, turning onto my knees and spring up while he's still tumbling across the cobblestones.

Time's up.

On my feet again, I lunge and plant my stake just under his left shoulder blade, angling it down. And 'poof,' no more Sean.

I sort of feel a little sorry for him. I bet he was one of those nice, quiet guys, the stuff of urban legend. Go figure, there's one out there—like a unicorn—and someone vamps him, then I dust him. No wonder this world sucks.

I'm still having trouble getting my head around what kind of vamp would think he'd make a good vamp. Vamps don't just happen. They get chosen for a reason, which is, I guess better than what happened with me. I'm not sure what was up with that. You gotta wonder about the criteria involved if I end up at the front of the line.

Or Faith, for that matter.

It's a little scary.

It's also ancient history. Massively successful, ancient history. Who'd've guessed it?

I shrug and pocket my stake. There's more something, but it's not vamps. Or if there are vamps, I can't tell. You'd think after that little show, if I was gonna have company, I would.

Still alone…

Or I suppose, alone again after attacking both of the sorta people I ran into tonight.

You'll have that with me.

Unzipping my hand pocket, I pull out my cellphone, glance at the clock and put it back.

Uh…wow. It's after two. Time to go. This is a good spot. I'll have to come back.

I jog down the drive and almost pass Bernie. She's buried in a thick coat of white mist. Naturally, my helmet's wet, along with the seat and every other thing. I should park closer to the road next time. I just hate announcing my presence. It seems stupid.

I use my shin to squeegee the seat and my thigh to wipe the face shield of my helmet. If I wasn't soaked before, I am now.

Good thing I don't get sick easy. This is like the perfect recipe for a cold.

I put on my helmet, fish the key out of my pocket, hop on and get moving.

Water beads up on Bernie's shiny, black paint. It glistens in the streetlight when I turn out of the cemetery. It's kind of pretty. The appeal ends as I build speed. The drops fly back, splashing into an already soggy me. One of them hits my neck, making me flinch. It'll be over soon enough. My neck and hands will stop burning and go numb. They always do.

As I leave Cloyntie, a weight lifts. The nagging creepiness fades. It's funny though. I'm shaking worse from the cold than I was from the creeps. I may build a fire when I get home. I'm not sure I'll be able to get warm any other way. I could just pile all the crap in the fireplace and kill two birds with one stone.

In relative calm, I click through the gears, lie down and try to behave myself. It's hard. The desire to just get there eats at me. When you're freezing on a bike, sixty just isn't that much different than one-twenty. Sure, the wind chill gets worse, but…it's all pretty much relative.

Miserable is just miserable.

And miserable is just what I am from point 'A' to 'B.' So of course, I'm stuck with an aggressive, bouncy mix of techno, dance and rock music. I think my iPod hates me. Happy music! And I could actually go for something melancholy now.

Go figure.

This playlist is _so_ gonna be toast when I get home.

The ride melts into a total blur of boring gray pavement, icy wind and one really irritating song after another. Before I know it, I've shivered my way into the stable and parked.

It takes me a sec to move. My legs are almost a total loss. Clumsy as hell, I climb off, take the key and shut the doors. I don't even touch my helmet until I'm halfway to the castle. When it comes off, so do the earbuds. Other times that might've annoyed me, but now it feels like a blessing. I just let the damned things hang out of the neck of my jacket.

I could go for a bath. Maybe I'll do that instead of burning things. Or I could do both—both and some hot chocolate. That'll work.

An act of will opens the door. It has to be me, but I'm not driving.

The thing that sucks most is my jeans never really dried. As the feeling returns, there's this sticking thing that happens. It's more than a little gross.

I trudge up the stairs, all three fights, counting as I go. Fifteen steps per flight. Huh. Pretty much useless, but good to know.

I guess…

Not really.

Down the hall, almost to the end. My room. There's no one up. No one to bother me. It's a little annoying that the door's still unlocked, but I'll live. I slip quietly inside.

It's uh…

The disaster's gone. Everything's spotless. The bed's even made.

I stare numbly at the disturbing retentiveness before I move. It's so weird. I guess the girls…

That was really sweet of them.

I turn toward my desk. There's a fire lit in the fireplace. It feels so good in here. I almost forget how miserable I am.

But there's something else different. Something truly bizarre. There's someone on my couch. All I see is the back of her head, long ginger hair, pulled back from her temples in two French braids that are clipped at the nape of her neck. Her head's bowed. She's reading something.

She doesn't react to me at all. I have to wonder if it's just wishful thinking and a vivid imagination gone totally tweaked from of the stress.

Reacting to her just as much as she does me, I walk over to my desk to stash my iPod in the dock and hang up my jacket. There's a mug on my desk. When I'm done, I cup my hands around it. It's warm. I stand stupefied for another sec, just enjoying the warmth, then I let go. A change of clothes sitting folded on the bed catches my eye as I turn.

'Kay, so…that might be a hint. One I really don't need. I leave the cup behind and grab up the pile of clothes. Wordlessly, I pass the apparition on my couch, disappearing into the bathroom.

I wash my hands first. It seems like a plan, given. And by gradually increasing the temperature of the water, they regain feeling.

A minor miracle, but I'll take even the little ones.

It requires more effort than I'd like to peel off my damp jeans. The bathtub calls me as I strip and toss my clothing into the hamper, but I ignore it. If that wasn't some sort of huge neon sign telling me I need a vacation, I—

I—

I don't even know. I'm not sure what to say. What can I say?

Where've you been?

_Yeah_.

That's not lame. Like she'd even answer me. She dropped off the planet for a year.

Like she even should. Where she's been isn't any of my business. After everything, I get the need for slack. God knows, I could use some slack. If I could take it, I'd totally go. I'd disappear. 'Poof,' no more Buffy.

I dress in the clothes laid out for me by my phantom guest. They're snuggly, warm and comfy, an undershirt, panties, a soft cotton tee, sweats and a hoodie. I feel nearly human when I finish. Another fraction of the human returns when I brush my teeth, wash my face and brush my hair.

I crack the door, half expecting nothing. What I get is close. It hurts a little, but she doesn't even look up. I cross the room and get the tea she made for me.

Or I guess she made it. That's all I've got. No more stalling. I return to the couch and take a seat next to her.

Still nothing.

I sip the tea, racking my brain for something. There has to be something to say. I could tell her how much she hurt me.

That never ends well.

I could tell her about my life.

Uh…

Yeah, _no_…a world of _no_…

I could say hello?

"Hello," I mumble, feeling a little bit stupid for not getting there sooner.

Totally aloof, she replies with the same.

Umm…

Well, either my imagination's really getting better and I've totally cracked or that's actually Will. The first thing has this really unpleasant ring, so I'm gonna go with the second.

Oh, _she's_ the one that cleaned up.

Uh…not good.

I have to…

No, _no_, I don't. No, I really, really don't.

I offer with genuine gratitude, "Thanks," despite the minor wig. I don't need to know, do I? What else is in that drawer?

"No problem," she replies, sounding completely nonchalant. She's still reading. I wonder what's so interesting.

There's lip gloss in that drawer. That's it. My lips are sort of chappy from the ride. Lip gloss…

I go get my lips gloss. And that's a truly awful idea. Everything's right where it should be, sitting in its case. Not exactly Peter Cottontail…

Well.

That's loads more than I ever cared to share. Wondering where she found it just makes things that much worse. As my demented brain conjures images, the blood drains from my face. Accompanying the evacuation, my mouth drops open, followed by heat, lots and lots of heat…

But I guess, in the big picture, this beats, 'I'm screwing Spike.'

Oh…'kay…

So…

Still an adult. It even says so on my driver's license. Why am I so wigged?

I'm not.

I take a deep breath, grab my lip gloss and turn toward the couch.

She hasn't moved a muscle. This time, I'm grateful.

I reclaim my seat, put on some lip gloss and take another sip of tea. All three things add to the _feeling human_. It's nice…feeling good again. My legs are actually warm. I didn't think they'd ever be warm again.

The tea she made is really weird, kinda tart, rich and really sweet. There's this strange sort of smokiness that's…well, it's _strange_. That's the best I've got. It tastes good, but it's unlike anything I've ever had before.

Small talk. It's as good a way to start as any. The big talk's gonna be traumatic. "What kind of tea is this?"

"It doesn't have a name," she replies. "A Chinese herbalist I know makes it. It's good for you. Drink it."

Okay, then…

'Willow's nameless, good-for-me tea.' That's as good a name as any.

And she just keeps reading.

I lace my fingers around the cup in my lap and silently watch her.

She's spoken, I've spoken…_we've_ spoken, but so far nothing's been said. This isn't how I imagined this happening. I'm not sure what I expected, but her being more interested in a stupid book than me wasn't on my list.

I arrive at one single, undeniable fact from my study: Willow's grown up.

There are a few, just a couple of fine lines around her eyes. Her skin's deeply tanned. She used to hate the sun. Willow on the beach was funny. Somehow, in a swimsuit, she'd have more clothes on—it was a serious production to even get her out there. She might be darker than I am now. It's not like Scotland's the best place for sunbathing. And tanning beds—?

Not so much.

She's dressed in jeans, a loose knit, white sweater with a white scoop neck cotton shirt underneath and calf-length, black leather boots. There's nothing dressy about it, but she makes it look refined. She could be at home anywhere. There's a casualness about her that's totally alien to the Willow I knew.

I find myself gawking. I guess it's my turn. Maybe Sean rubbed off on me? Or it could be that…

Beautiful.

She didn't need my advice. She found it on her own.

I jump when she shuts her book. It's heavy and black with symbols on the cover in place of a title. I guess that answers that. Like the tea, her book is nameless. She sets it on the coffee table and turns to face me, sitting sideways on the couch.

She examines me for a moment or two before she speaks. Those moments…they take an eternity. When she's finished, I feel about as tall as my cup. "What're you doing?" she asks.

Funny, her voice is barely above whisper, but—

My mouth goes dry. I sip my tea, hoping it'll help. It does, but only sort of. The dry turns pasty. I take another sip. I could tell her I'm drinking nameless tea that's supposed to be good for me. I have it on reliable authority that it is.

Uh, yeah…

That's not what she wants.

Ashamed and feeling like a chastened child, I mumble the truth, "I don't know."

She rests her arm against the back of the couch. And propping her head casually in hand, she replies, "I see that."

Heat rises again. At first I'm not sure whether it's shame or anger. I just feel kind of numb and prickly. Seconds later, when it finally catches up, I seethe, "I'm doing the best I can. It's not like I've had bunches of help." I rake my fingers through my hair, pulling just to feel the pain. "And pressure..._no_, I'm not under any pressure. No stress at all. Not even a little. So, yeah…I lost it tonight. But you—" I gulp in a starved breath "—if any of my _so called_ friends had stuck around to help…"

A tear drops into my cup. That's it. I can't go on.

I can't look up.

I can't…

I weep.

It's all I can…

And I guess that's all I need.

She takes the mug from my hands, sets it aside and reaches for me. I pull away at first, but she doesn't take 'no.' She insists on holding me while I fall apart.

Three words…

Three stupid, simple, pathetic, fucking words…

I don't have an answer.

I don't know what I'm doing.

Clueless.

Gently rocking, she hushes me and strokes my hair out of my face.

She cares.

I'm not sure if it's better or worse, but she _really_ cares.

She whispers stuff about how sorry she is. I listen to her, but over the bad, I don't really hear. She's sorry. I get that part. That's the important part.

I'm worse for the meltdown, but I might be better. It could be better. Is she gonna leave me?

If she doesn't leave, I'll be better. I'll do whatever it takes to make it better.

Just don't leave.

No!

She'll get hurt. I always hurt.

I push away. She's so soft and warm…it feels so good to be held, but I push away.

I can't let her get hurt. I've hurt her enough for three lifetimes. My third lifetime. Everything I touch turns to shit.

Hugging my shins, I curl up in the corner of the couch, putting as much distance between us as I can. I rest my forehead on my knees.

Small again.

How does she do that? No one else does that to me.

And there's nothing. No answers.

She watches me. I really wish she wouldn't.

"I hoped you'd forgive me, but I get that you can't," she whispers. Her weight shifts. She stands before continuing, "But I need you to understand something." Her soft, delicate voice fades, moving further away. "I had to answer that question…" I draw in a harsh, shaky breath, fighting to stifle the tears "…that one and a couple others. I needed to know. It was dangerous for me not to know."

She's leaving!

"No!" I snap, focusing in her direction. Where she should be…

She's there, but a little closer to the door than I thought.

"Please stay," I mumble.

My skin feels alive with ants.

Shivery.

When she turns, it gets a little better. The look she gives me, it's more than a little weird, like she's trying to figure me out.

I'm a puzzle. A broken puzzle. I wonder if I still have all my pieces.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

No.

Somehow, I find stunning new levels of conflicted and nod my head 'no.'

But when she returns, the creepy-crawly eases, so I must be onto something.

I am.

I'm onto totally losing it.

I can't look, but that's okay. Or I guess it is, because I manage to speak. "I-I just…" summoning courage, I take a deep breath "…I don't want anyone else to get hurt." Well, at least that matched. It sounded as pitiful as I sounded. That's a step up from conflicted.

Silence.

It drags on so long, I nearly look up. I guess there's nothing to say. If anyone gets it, she does.

"You're not gonna hurt me. Not in the way you mean, at least."

There's a frankness to what she says and how she says it that makes me want to look even more. She's completely certain. How can she be certain…of anything? None of us know what's coming. She sounds…

That does it.

I look up.

The instant I do, I'm sorry. She's smirking. She's not even looking at me. I'm not—

And _she's smirking_. So, I'm falling apart and she finds it amusing?

How can she…?

When I sigh, she faces me.

I want to stay mad, but I don't have it in me. I'd forgotten this. Or at least, it wasn't something…

This is it, that other thing, the thing that makes her different, the thing that first drew me to her. I couldn't resist it.

Even in the low light, there's this twinkle, this light in her eyes. It's like 'smart' became a tangible thing, like I could reach out and touch it. She glows with it.

But that's not it. What makes her unique is the mischief. Impishness. She's not just beautiful.

'Kay, so…I'm circling cliché and plummeting dangerously close to corny. It'll be a miracle if I don't find it.

But that's it, she's dangerous.

Yeah…that's corny, but that's totally it, that's the appeal. And that's what makes her so special.

Cordy couldn't hope for that. They all thought I was being stupid. That my generosity had somehow overwhelmed my commonsense…

Yeah. Not so much.

And all these years later…how long's it been? Nine years? We've grown apart and I still see that thing I loved.

Loved?

No, _love_…

It fits.

The mischief fades. Weird, I'm sad to see it go. I should be really offended. I should've stayed offended.

"We're not gonna fix this tonight," she whispers, "We shouldn't even try."

That sounds…

She smiles. I know I look like hell, but I return the smile. I can't stop myself. It's so genuine. There's so much warmth in her smile—actual affection—if I didn't…

Again, charmed, I just can't resist.

"You're tired, you should get some rest," she whispers.

My eyes are so heavy. I fight it. It's useless.

Helpless, I shut them.

She lifts me up and puts me in bed. It feels so good. The covers move without being touched, tucking around me.

I want the contact, but she doesn't touch me. Just a hug, minus the melty badness, would be nice.

The gray I see behind my closed eyelids shifts to dull orange, telling me the glowing embers of the fire are the only light left.

"If you need me, I'll be here. I promise…"

But I _do_ need you.

My door clicks shut.

Warm, fuzzy darkness…

Like falling…

An angel beckons me.


	2. The Noose

**Summary:** One of the things I've always appreciated about the Buffyverse is the notion that when you ask big, the cost is big. There's symmetry in a system of checks and balances like that. At the end of _Season Seven_ we watch Willow ask _big_. Requests don't get much bigger. She opens herself up to every potential slayer on the planet. She touches them. She channels the demonic force that makes a slayer into each of them.

She says herself in _Season Six_ that she has 'become the magic.' In the episode _Grave_ Willow experiences a moment of pure empathy. We see that spooled down in _Season Seven_, but she is still connected to every living thing. She feels that connection. She's certainly saner, but she's not the same. I believe that that was what Tara was trying to warn her away from. She's become something that's no longer quite human. She's more like human plus. The notion that 'human plus' creating that link would retain a lingering effect doesn't seem that far off base to me.

The Willow I write still feels every slayer. She hears their thoughts. And she hears the thoughts of others, but not so acutely. The only creatures she doesn't share a connection with are demons. This certainly provides a valid reason for her disappearance. Imagine trying to cope with a facility full of hormonal young girls if you were inextricably linked to them.

Oh, and my Willow…she doesn't damsel. She's far too accident-prone for that.

**Rating:** FRM: Mature Audience: Parents Strongly Cautioned.

**Word Count:** 10,570.

**Beta Reader:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing: **Hints of Buffy/Willow, but this is way, way, way pre-slash. At this point in the story they're doing well to act like friends.

**Disclaimer: ** Imagine what the Buffyverse would be like as an open franchise. Okay, now get your head out of the clouds. Buffy and her friends will remain the in the capable hands of powers such as the Kuzui's and Fox until long after public interest wanes. So long as there's buck to be made…

******Dedication:**It's been almost five years since Howard contacted me to ask if I would like his services as a beta. He took the time to actually teach me, rather than just make changes. At the time I wrote this (November of 2008), it seemed appropriate that in appreciation for all of his help, I should dedicate it to him. It was, and likely still is, one of the most technically challenging and complex pieces of fiction I've written.

Thank you, Howard.

* * *

**The Noose**

* * *

It's always the same.

Like a chorus, my victims cry out to me. Every last one—all except one—someone I love. Their faces are twisted with anguish, darkened by rage, or worst of all, dull and thick with disappointment.

Heavy, hanging suspended on the edge of sleep, I linger here. There's ritual in this place, conjured by memory and shame. Traveling from one to the next, I remember who I am and what I do.

You can't hide from yourself. You can sorta cope, sometimes, maybe…but you can't hide.

Not really.

Eventually, it catches up…and you feel whatever you feel. Lucky me, I'm a master of guilt.

The last face I see is Kennedy's. Unlike the others, she looks so peaceful.

But that's only because she's dead.

The look improved with time. Well, time and a little magic.

Yup, everything's better with magic. A flick of the wrist, a few well chosen words, and 'presto'…everyone hates me.

How could I joke about that?

'I always tell that wrong.'

'Wrong' is right.

My head pounds. Whatever they did to me, I think the lab rats they tried it out on croaked. I scrunch my eyes. That just makes it worse.

Rats.

Through the whoo-gah, whoo-gah, chugging noise in my head, one of them speaks. I think it's the same one they used on Next Gen for main engineering. The sound, not the talking. The geekiness just figures.

And the talking…it's like being plopped in the middle of the worst Disney film ever. Something about 'ropes' and 'dopes'…

Whatever. Understanding isn't strictly necessary. All I really need to know is that I've died and gone to pop culture hell. It's the only reasonable explanation.

Smugness gives way to an overwhelming sense of disgust. Cutting through the haze, a voice rings in my mind. «I can't believe I used to look—no, not 'look up to'—I used to _envy_ this bitch. She's so pitiful.»

I groan.

I knew I should've stayed in bed today.

Yeah. I guess that's Amy. She always was sort of…

But that's the trouble…I'm not sure. I'm never really sure. When I first began to play with this, I thought it was just curious that people never sounded in their heads quite the way they sounded.

Now that I'm not playing, I think it just bites. It's frustrating trying to pick who's who from the din. The trouble is that we all have an image of how we sound and it's never quite the same as what everyone else hears. The image wins out because the brain's a screwy thing.

Anyway, I put it down to that. Sometimes just understanding can be helpful.

I crack my eyes. The overhead light's so bright that it only takes about a tenth of a second before they reflexively close. And my brain…

I see spots for my trouble. Figures. My brain's the screwiest one of all. It's apt to go flooey any moment now.

My body feels distant, heavy and numb. It's like she sedated me.

But I don't think that's all. I feel too weak for that. Hopelessly weak. There's gotta be something else.

And there's someone else. Wrath radiates from the corner of the room to my right and near my feet. The 'someone else' is keeping their distance. I'd really like to pin down who it is, but their voice is way too muddled to recognize.

Patience, all things in time…

It's just…getting the 'why' might be easier if I could. But it's not like people who are miffed at me are in short supply.

A tiny prickle gives me a hint as she—at least, it think that's a 'she'—considers, «I can't believe he's making me wait. This had better be worth it.»

She feels like a slayer.

Maybe?

I'm not sure.

That'd really narrow it down. It could be any one of them. It's not like I made their lives all cotton candy and carnival rides.

Uh…

Unless you count the ick-factor of sugary and greasy foods and spinny, Tilt-a-Whirl… Oh! Or that barrel thing! Wow! That thing's quadruple, quintessential badness. All the vertigo a body never needs mixed with enough centrifugal force for some serious all-around grossness. Anyway, then just maybe…

Stiffening, she shifts anxiously. «I'm waiting. That bitch is in the same room and I'm just standing around.»

I should open my eyes.

I really don't wanna.

Between the drama and the five star accommodations, I can pretty much figure it out. The cold and hard against my back tells me I'm on a metal table, like in a laboratory. The heat from the light just adds to that image. It's not exactly candlelight and roses. There's this warm tingle around my wrists and ankles, probably magical restraints. Leechy magical restraints, considering the wooziness.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say they don't want to tickle me.

And odds are, whatever they plan to do, I probably deserve it.

«I should just put my fist through her face.» Umm…

Or not. How 'bout 'not'?

«I wonder how much force it'd take.»

I wonder if you've ever considered anger management classes. I'm seeing a serious need.

«It'd increase exponentially based on the area impacted.»

Grrr! Okay, so…I'm awake.

«It'll take more than one punch.»

I really should open my eyes.

«I'll break my hand, but it'll be worth it.» She positively seethes as she moves toward me. «Breaking my hand is nothing now.»

Yeah, she's one of them.

«Screw this!» Her hand cracks across my cheek. My head snaps sideways. «I'm sick of her playing dead!» It stings. I cringe. «Between 'being' and 'playing,' I'm gonna have to come down firmly in favor of 'being'.» My eyes pop open. I turn my head to look. All I see is shadow. She cranes over me, blocking the light.

Amy's giggling fades, giving way to a warning. "We need her alive." My new friend's tizzy fit inspires a predictable amendment. "For now."

Oh, _please_…

Someone cue the dramatic score, all boring and weighty with wanna-be foreboding.

I'm over it. I should be terrified, but like Buffy, I've seen too much of this crap to really care. The backlight's annoying. This is like some silly interrogation scene from a pulp detective story. I suppress a sigh and shut my eyes. If they really want to scare me, they're gonna have to try harder.

But just when I get the least bit comfy, clattering above my head draws my attention.

«I could always flay the bitch…that'd be poetic.» No surprise. That wasn't Amy. It was our mystery guest. It was also—

My attention fixes on a scalpel when it comes into view. It's not a hard choice, what with the mention of flaying. My face appears to be the target. Flaying and faces…

'Kay, so…I really didn't mean it. You can go back to that other sort of 'trying' anytime now. I swear I'll be fine. If it'd make you happy, I'll even play scared. It'll be fun.

The scalpel nears my eye as Amy yammers in the background, "We stick to the plan, babe. First we beat her. Then we use her. Once she's humiliated, you can kill her. I get the beef—trust me I do—but you need to be patient. We've got way more to gain from patience."

The slayer fumes, "Plans are good…" twiddling the instrument between her fingers "…but they have this nasty habit of going sideways around Rosenberg. It's like she and her wacky little band of super pals are charmed. I gotta say, the direct approach holds more appeal."

Yeah…umm, how 'bout 'no'?

Is 'no' a valid answer?

It's not till Amy takes a step forward that I get exactly how large this woman is. She towers over the witch by a good six inches. Well, that'll make her easy to spot in a crowd. I just wish I could see her face. She's one seriously homicidal redhead. History lessons aside, I've got nothing.

After stating firmly, "We stick to the plan," Amy tries to rub the other woman's back to calm her. That just makes her madder. Her thoughts are consumed by—well, it's a jumbley mess of 'dead Willow' scenarios in there.

Tentatively, I focus, leeching a little power. As it trickles away, the blade closes in, hovering above my eye. She puts the scalpel up long enough to put this icky, pinchy, clampy thing on my eyelids when I close them. Why I thought that'd help is beyond me, but—

Stupid thing sucks. I used to know what to call these things. An ocular speculum or something. Who knows?

And who really cares?

The slayer goes back to fidgeting with the scalpel, rolling the handle between her fingers while she tells me what I already know. "All of your power's siphoned into those bonds. The stronger you get…" She lets out a humorless chuckle. "Try it. Go dark. I really wish you would."

Reaching around the slayer, Amy takes her hand. The blade almost nicks my eye, but she pulls it away.

I blink. It might actually be time for me to get scared, or at least a little worried.

As the slayer turns to face Amy, I get my first real look. She's pretty. They all are. I wonder where, in the mix of attributes that makes a good slayer, 'pretty' came in. It's there though, nearly a universal truth of the line. Her eyes are cold, steely gray and…they're weird, sorta empty. Something's missing, a glint, some spark of life. Her dull eyes speak to something I should've felt before.

Amy carefully disarms the slayer, dropping the scalpel back onto the tray. I watch the exchange between them, gentle touches and significant looks. There's a vibe to the whole thing that leaves me totally baffled.

Yeah. That's it. That's why she felt so weird. Sort of like a chocolate bunny, this slayer's hollow. She's missing the gooey filling the rest of us have. The closest thing I can figure is vamp, but she lacks the heebie jeebies that mark a vamp.

Well, maybe not 'lacks,' but it's different.

Definitely wig-some…there's genuine warmth between them. If Amy being gay isn't enough of a stumper, affection from the soulless is. But it's there. Can't really question it.

Sensitivity training's seriously on the to-do list. Big shocker, that's not a requisite for chasing Amy.

The slayer reflects, «This is nice, cozy even, but enough screwing around,» before she turns to me and snarls, "What about you, Rosenberg? Are you bored now?"

Actually, yeah…I suppose popcorn and movies are out of the question?

«Such a heartwarming epitaph.»

Huh?

Oh, no way! She's not—

«I need to put this thing in her and get the hell out before I kill the stupid cunt.»

Uh…

She looms over me for a sec, and then it's back to torturing Willow. Avoiding the eyes might be nice, but _no_, they're the target.

What'd she mean, 'this thing'? This is seriously sounding worse by the moment.

«Accidents happen all the time.»

And worse…

«I'm feeling pretty clumsy.» The clampy thing to hold my right eye open pinches as she messes with it. It's unpleasant, but—

«I wonder if the boss would lose it if I accidentally lobotomized the bitch?»

Not as unpleasant as that.

A worried Amy leans in to watch. «I should keep an eye on her. We need the princess in one piece if our plan's gonna work.»

Her concern's genuinely touching. She moves around the table to assist with whatever nightmare they have in mind.

And, predictably, the crazy soulless one goes for the pointy objects again.

So, what do we have so far? Uh…

Her hand closes in. Now might not be—

The scalpel cuts into the corner of my eye. I scream. Thoughts, all stormy and jumbled, rush through my head, both hers and mine. Stronger than the others, one harsh reflection breaks through. «We're gonna take this real slow.»

The heel of her hand rests against my cheekbone. It's two things a hand shouldn't be: moist and chilly. Why I notice is anyone's guess.

There's a knock and a reluctant Amy disappears. As the door swings shut, a loud cracking sound resonates through the lab.

The next person to disappear is me.

I do, but I don't.

I don't get it. It makes no sense. I'm here, but not. At least not in the conventional sense…

Why does this always happen to me? 'Poof,' I end up somewhere weird. Or 'poof,' I'm here, but not really. If I wasn't so damned grateful to have that thing out of my eye, I might just be a little put out.

Crackling bolts of electricity arc from the table to a big, creepy metal box. It feels icky and wrong, like Amy's techno-magic just kinda puked all over the room. Instinctively, I recoil.

The flavor of the moment is 'swarm of me.' Like a bunch of bees, but different, less effectual, more ethereal. I swirl around the table, tumbling to the floor.

'It feels weird' is like the understatement of the century.

Oh, I remember this. Oops!

Well, the lady—and boy, do I ever use that term loosely—asked me to go dark. Let's hear it for the power of suggestion.

She lays unconscious on the floor. I float around her like a cloud, hoping to get a better look. Not that I can exactly look. My eyes are kind of—well, they're here somewhere in this mess. But I can feel. She's gone, or mostly gone. Umm…almost _dead_.

Kenn's face surfaces again from the haze. I wonder if this slayer wears that same soft, deceptively peaceful expression.

If I don't help her, she'll really die.

Good thought, but when Amy bursts through the door with half the military on her tail, I skedaddle, sucking up under the lower shelf of the table. As hiding places go, it's not the most original, but—improvising here—it's the best I've got on short notice.

I'm seriously lit, almost vibrating. As I consciously siphon off the charge into the buzzy, metal table, the mantra mollifies some of the noise.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

My mantra. It's a little weird that I don't even think about that now. It's just something I automatically do.

She gets one look at the slayer and yells, "That fucking bitch!" And then she goes ballistic searching for me and ranting both inside and out.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see. _

Curses and guttural threats almost drown out my cutesy little nursery rhythm. It's hard not to listen, almost surreal.

Focusing, I push her aside. If I pay attention to her tirade, I might miss something important.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me. _

I really hate people.

With any luck, I'll be able to cloak myself in the lightshow without getting zapped…and stay sane. Staying sane would be nice. If she finds me, I'll scram. Until then, I need to hang out. Between Buffy and her amorous little nap, zombies invading the castle and other assorted badness, I'm beginning to think something's up. It'd be nice to know what for once.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

And my first clue was? Other subtle hints…

Aluwyn has subtle down to an art form, a highly cryptic, utterly perplexing, art form. The memo I got said, 'go see your friends.' The rest was way too vague to be sensey.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

The more sensey it gets, the more I want to bail. I hear Tahiti's nice this time of year.

No Tahiti for me. _No_, away I went to find Buffy puddling toward total meltdown. Ignoring that was challenging in new and un-fun ways. But it's not like she hasn't given me lots of practice.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see. _

I'm really not sure what to do about that besides what I did. Making her think is about my only recourse. Otherwise…

And now, here I am being one with the furniture after psycho slayer tries to stab my eye out.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me. _

I should've known better. Tahiti would've been nice.

I don't need anyone harping at me about the big picture. The picture, big or small, I get it. The Mona-Lisa-sized image that is Buffy Summers. In the grand scheme, she looks small—sort of insignificant—but she isn't. And she has a better smile.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

The thing is—what they don't get—if Buffy doesn't want help, there's nothing I can do. She gives stubborn people a new pinnacle of excellence and perfection to aspire to.

They don't even want to hear that part. All I get is, 'fix it.'

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

If I make it out of here in one piece, fixing that is gonna be fun. It's a totally double-edged sword. I miss her so much, but when I'm around her, all I want to do is leave. Leaving really isn't an option now. I wish it was, but she needs—

One of the soldiers demands, "I thought you said that the witch would be contained. What happened?" Judging from tone of voice and age, it's a pretty safe bet that he's the leader.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see. _

Amy replies, "Well, I thought she would be." Her voice is thick with stress. It takes a few moments, but she folds. His mood tells me there's a glare involved, 'cause she really didn't answer the question. "It looks to me like she used Riah to overload the system. A power spike might give her a little bit of time. Not much."

'Riah?' The Hebrew word for bitter. I try to giggle. Thankfully, I'm a little too insubstantial for that. I'll eat my hat—the one I'm not wearing because I'm too insubstantial for that too—if that's her real name. That's just too fitting to be real.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me. _

A flurry of activity accompanies the leader's grumble. "Little or not, it was obviously enough. I want this mess cleaned up…" he motions to indicate Riah "…and the witch located pronto." As two of his men move in to deal with the 'mess,' he continues, "You led me to believe this would be easy. Should I start doubting your word, Ms. Madison?"

Sounding a lot more certain, she responds, "No." But a nervous tic totally gives her away. She clears her throat and slathers on more false confidence. "Look, she's here. I just have to find her."

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

She starts to pace, anxiously probing for me as she remarks, "It's just really hard to judge with her. Besides, I don't get why you're so upset. Keep your eyes on the prize, General. There's no way Buffy won't come for her."

This is the oldest game in the book, using me to get at Buffy. It's predictable and lame. I need to bail. It's a gamble, but I'll give them five more minutes. I really want to know what's up.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

Yeah. And I'm not a total masochist.

The leader commands, "Seal off the area," sounding grumpy and mean. I think it's a natural state for him. He seems pretty comfy with it.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see. _

The majority of the men exit the room. It's a major good. Crowded doesn't even begin…

As the noise dies down to a dull roar, my interest sets on Riah. The medics poke at her. It's frustrating. They're clueless.

I wonder who she really is. All the arrows point to something I'd rather not believe. It's just too weird, even for me. There has to be a better answer.

Whoever she is they seriously need to help her, or she's gonna be no one.

But if I'm right, she already is.

Stop wigging over me and do your job, Amy. I know you get it. You weren't a total loser. Every once in a while you showed a glimmer of actual talent.

I'm not sure who's worse, the soulless slayer with the weird crushy attachment, or the soulful witch who's so obsessed with hurting me that she's willing to let her lover die.

It's a sad, sad situation.

While she's screwing around, the military gorillas wheel her honey out on a gurney.

It's probably foolish, but I hope she lives.

My attention shifts back to more pressing matters when Amy makes a lap around the table. I don't need to hear, «I don't get it. She's right here,» to know that she senses me.

And right on cue, the knuckle-draggers move in behind her, turning the room into a disaster.

I shadow the flipping furniture and tumbling medical equipment a little too literally.

What is it with fighty people and the throwing things?

I'm not cleaning this one up.

No way, no how.

Eventually, I follow the chaos into a dark, quiet corner without getting squished or crispified.

As I come to rest against the floor, Amy all but yells, «Gotcha!» Or it feels that way. I'll just be grateful if my brain doesn't…

An energy ball hurls toward me. All it takes to avoid it is a little shift to my left. It hits wide, utterly missing its mark and scorching the wall. Junk goes flying everywhere.

…dribble out of my ears before this is over.

It's kind of funny…in a completely pitiful sort of way.

You made a better rat. They aren't big on betrayal, despite the bad rap. They kinda lack the skills, not to mention the stature for any real treachery. Cage-sized is pretty limiting.

«This'd be loads easier with Gomer, Sergeant Carter and the rest of the platoon out of the way.» Her thought quickly gives way to a comment, "General, if you don't mind, this'd be simpler without the help." «I can't really take the chance of hitting one of them. It wouldn't end well.»

"Very well, but I expect her located and quarantined within the hour," the general snaps. The clicking of booted feet sound around the room, followed closely by the best click of all, the click of a latch against a striker plate when the door shuts. It's a beautiful click. Most of the mindless chatter and ickiness leaves with that one little click.

Ah…it's just us girls.

And boy, do we have some catching up to do.

I'm thinking it's a 'Cheese-Its and Stewart Little' kind of night.

With them gone, Amy just opens up. "What's the matter? Is the big bad witch frightened?" she grumbles under her breath. Glowing little globs of energy fly every which way. They crash and bounce, making more of a mess.

Someone's a wee bit peevish.

That's such a fun word.

«Where is she?»

And so underused.

Hiding in the rubble, I skirt the edge of the room. This room's not that big. She's bound to eventually hit herself. That'd be funny. Too bad I can't afford to wait.

«There!»

A crackly mass of ouchy badness flies my way. A near miss, a little singe and more broken glass…

Try again.

And she does.

I get bored with the hide and seek. It can be fun, but—

I streak around the room. Flashes and crashes follow me. I think she's catching on.

«Stupid bitch!»

Maybe not.

I'm a little disappointed. The smart call would be one big boom. Something that'd make my ethereal ears bleed. But she squanders all of her energy conjuring as fast as she can, sending a hail of zappy little projectiles vaguely my way. It's sad. None of them would do much more than sting even if I wasn't—

It's like trying to hit a fly with a baseball. Possible, but mostly…well, the room's a goner. We're to the 'big cloud of dust, crushed furniture and broken walls' phase of the deconstruction.

She's been asking for this all night. Playing Tinkerbell from Hell, I launch at her ankles.

I twist and whirl, maneuvering myself past the assault. A few minor jolts later, I strafe around her once, feet to head, and materialize behind her. Grabbing her shoulder, I give her a spin as I take all the power I need.

She's clueless and catching up.

I'm not really a violent person. I like to leave the fisticuffs to those better qualified, but she's on my last nerve. When she turns into me, I just deck her. The punch is…it's lots more violent than I planned. It connects under her chin. She lifts off her feet and goes crashing into the fizzling metal box. As I shake my throbbing hand, sparks fly.

That hurt!

I don't see how Buffy does it.

The words aren't strictly necessary, but for her benefit, I say the spell, "Goddess Hecate, work thy will. Before thee let the unclean thing crawl."

Her empty clothes float to the floor. It takes a sec but, one of her boots rocks back and forth. I smile when my pet emerges from it. I missed Amy the Rat.

I walk over and scoop her up, giving her a gentle stroke between the ears with my index finger as I look around. We still need to get out of here. With her like this, it's gonna be a whole lot more complicated.

First things first, I need a bag. I pick my way around the rubble and open one of the lockers near the door. In the second locker, I come across a basic field medic kit. The contents hit the floor before I place Amy inside and sling the stylish, military issue olive drab bag over my shoulder. It'll work.

The room's such a wreck it's hard to tell what was where. I spend a few moments trying to find the tray of medical instruments Riah used on me. They planned to put something inside me. It'd be nice to know what.

Besides, souvenirs—never bad. Well, unless they're—

Yeah, this one's probably gonna be bad.

Reaching out to detect anything magical is pretty much pointless, what with that huge, leaky battery in the room. It kinda feels like the Wiccan version of Chernobyl in here. How Amy managed to detect me at all—well, it just further proves that she has help. Like I need more proof.

My eye just sucks! I wipe the lower lid and—no surprise—pull back a bloody finger. It's all twitchy and weird. It focuses fine, but movement's a problem.

It's annoying.

I use the surplus of magical potential to my advantage. I'm gonna need all the help I can get. Absently, I build my defenses and jumpstart the healing process while I dig, turning the upside-down, upside-down. Finally, I locate the tray. There's a few things near it, but nothing worth noticing.

It has to be in this room. Thing is, I'm not even sure what I'm looking for. I just hope I'll know it when I see it.

There's actually a list of hopes.

I hope Buffy doesn't come after me before I finish up. I really need to get moving!

I hope whatever I find isn't dangerous—I mean immediately dangerous. I totally get that this isn't cute, snuggly stuff. Nothing else here is, so…it's gonna be something bad. If it doesn't try to bite me or penetra…

Uh, yeah…

I cringe.

Between Buffy and Cordelia, I think we've seen enough tentacle rape scenarios for one lifetime. Moving on.

Right now, it'd just be nice to get us out of this Initiative-inspired Hell without—

Something catches my eye, I quirk an eyebrow and stare. It's a rock. I was kidding about the 'souvenirs' thing. Seriously. This really doesn't seem like the sort of place you'd find a spherical piece of moss agate. Military bases just aren't that big with the tourist trade.

I locate a box of latex gloves, put one on, pick the little rock up and turn the glove inside out around it. The rock does nothing. It feels like nothing. It's a rock. But I follow my hunch and tie the glove closed.

This has to be it. It's just way too out of place. And if it isn't, I get a souvenir. I drop the rock into one of the outside pockets of the bag. I'll cherish it forever.

Well, I'm as ready as I get. After one last quick look around, I crack the door and peek out. There's no one in the hallway, or no one I can see. The magical fallout in the room's really messing with me. I still can't feel anything. For someone who avoids people because she feels everything, this is truly bizarre, like walking around with blinders on.

Creepy-crawly skin and all, I step out the door. Tiptoeing's sorta pointless what with the buzzing. With any luck, once I clear the interference, I'll be able to feel them.

But honestly, if it never came back, if I were just blind again, I really wouldn't mind.

It's a total trade off. I have insight most people would kill to have…until they had it. Naturally, I use it to my advantage. Considering the price I pay…I can't feel too bad about it.

When I reach the end of the hall, it's back—my price. There are five soldiers around the corner a little way down the intersecting hallway.

Aw…isn't that sweet? One of them misses his wife. She's pregnant and he's out of leave time.

Pouting, I conjure one doozy of a concussion bolt. Their ears should still be ringing next week. Maybe they'll let his wife visit while he recovers.

I toy with the ball of blue light in my palm. Once I toss this, every alarm in this place is gonna go off. It should crack the foundation.

Commitment.

This makes me really jittery. There's nothing I can do. I'd rather face a legion of demons than one human with a gun. I can actually fight the first thing.

Okay, well…I could fight the second one too, but when there are lots of guns—?

Stopping a bullet is still one major trick, even when you have lots of tricks. With enough time, I can do it. But bunches? Not without some hardcore mojo and lots of help.

There are gonna be bunches.

All I can do is make my skin hard and shield myself to some degree. But the impact—?

I've got nothing. Or not enough. And I'm out of time.

I've done everything I can.

I could try to be sneaky.

Truly sneaky means I can't take Amy. And I need her. I need to know what's going on for once.

Sort of sneaky might get me past some of it, but that'd take more time. And time's still the one thing I don't have.

If I had all the time in the world, I'd create my own portal. It's possible, but that takes at least an hour without help, usually more.

I could teleport, but not without knowing where the heck I am. It's just too risky. I could snoop around and find out. That'd be smart. Astral project and leave my body behind undefended. Let's not.

I have to get to the portal the mystics in Scotland are forming. I know they are. I know that Buffy will want to…

And I have to stop her, or help if she comes.

I've got no other choice.

Okay, I've talked myself into it. Now for the fun part.

I clench my left fist, digging my nails into my palm. I can't break the skin, but it sure smarts.

On three…

One macaroni…

Two macaroni…

Three macaroni…

I take a step forward and turn to face the men. They notice me, but not before I lob a handful of hurt their way. As I dive back the way I came, their weapons level on me. Tumbling to a halt, I cover my ears and curl around Amy's bag.

Automatic weapons fire is muffled by the sound of the explosion. The floor rumbles. Pieces of the ceiling rain over me. The lights flicker and go dim.

More rain accompanies the blaring buzz of the alarm going off. This time it's actually water. I set off the sprinkler system.

Growing soggier by the moment, I jump to my feet and cast another really impressive, boomy spell. Making the central nervous system go all wonky isn't the best choice around guns, but I can't think of anything else that'll work as well for crowd control.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

Soldiers pile into the hall. An overwhelming crush of excitement comes with them. There are so many, it's hard for me to judge how many.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

I finish the spell and poke my head out just long enough to chuck it into the fray.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

As it does its boomy thing, I prepare another—something quicker—all flash and zap. Amy would be proud.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

This time, I go. I have to. Time's not something I have. Launching myself into the air, I shoot down the hall over the piles of writhing men.

The rat-tat-tat of weapons discharging makes me flinch.

I can't help it. I'll feel bad later. Right now…

It's a really long hall, so I can just go.

Buffy would enjoy this.

I just hope I'm going the right way. That's the only problem—well, not the _only_ problem, just the biggest one right now.

I have no clue where I am. I could've gone straight, but you'd think they'd put the guards between me and the exit, so…this made sense.

Water pelts my face as I hurl forward, reaching out, looking for people and magical disturbances. I should be able to feel the portal forming now. But there're lots of bizarre magically-charged technological gadgets all over this place to distract me. The sheer power's kinda staggering.

This is way creepier than the Initiative. It's like Initiative concentrate. New and improved, with more twisted gadgets, wacky friends and way crazier goals. The last bunch just wanted an army of human-cyber-demon hybrid guys, like something from Doom.

And who doesn't?

I could totally go for one myself right now.

But that's it—the huge difference. It's the human technology that mucks this all up. What I'm looking for is something pure. Something earth magicy—not wigged, hybrid demon magic with techy tricks dumped on top for oomph.

Completely drenched and shivering, I reach the end of the hallway and touch down. Another T-intersection. So, left or right? I choose left, ducking into the alcove.

It's a totally futile act, but I mop my face as I stare at the heavy steel door. There's one on either side and they're both locked. I have to find a way past, but I need to know which one first. This isn't gonna be easy. There's not exactly anyone left to ask. And having to open both would just suck.

I close my eyes and reach out, extending my senses.

There are only a couple of people behind me. I can almost hear their thoughts if I focus really hard. Whispers, mumbled words, like Charlie Brown's teacher, only much, much softer.

I lay my palm against the door and listen. My stomach lurches. Dead ahead, about twenty meters past the door, the drone's deafening. It's a nightmare. My worst nightmare. It's easy to figure that along with the nightmare…

A shiver creeps down my spine. There must be at least two-hundred soldiers out there.

It's a trap.

Of course, my brain—it's a traitor. Now that I've noticed them, the muffled roar fills my head.

I'm damned.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

Concentrating on the lock, I work to trick the door open. I have to. There's no choice. More electronic gadgets—typical stuff—the right sequence of numbers entered into the keypad and a keycard slid through the little doohickey. I don't have either and there's no one around to borrow them from, so…

Sparks fly when I overload the circuit. The door's permanently locked now. Well, sort of…

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

To them it is.

I seize the locking mechanism and slide it aside with an absent thought. It's heavy, but that's relative, as is the size of the door. It redefines 'heavy.' I need to channel more power to even budge it.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

Y'know, I really don't get the military mindset. They locked thirty or so soldiers in here with me, a dangerous hostile. I wonder if they still call them 'hostiles.' Probably. But I'm not so much a demon. Or really even all that dangerous. I have a conscience, unlike—

But odds are, along with the goals, the definitions were 'improved' too. So 'hostile' I am.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

Actually, I'm not a hostile. I'm bait. But they might reconsider their position on that, especially when I get done.

And all I have to do for the promotion is break out of a fortified military installation and take out a company of heavily armed soldiers along the way. No sweat.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

Yeah, this is gonna inhale sharply.

Finally, with lots of stress and effort, the door retracts far enough into the wall for me to slip through. The one good: at least the sprinklers aren't on in here. But there are plenty of other negatives to make up for the one minor positive.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

There's another door between me and them. I walk down the short stretch of hall and get to work.

Once the door sizzles and sparks, I channel the power to not only move it, but conjure another crowd crusher. Working on both things simultaneously keeps me from dwelling. And that is another plus.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

I time everything right. As the door creaks, sliding aside, I chuck the glowing blue orb through the gap and take cover.

A loud clap breaks the silence. Weapons go off and screams fill the air.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

My eyes flutter. I scrunch them closed for just a sec to steel my resolve against the pain. Then I slip through the doorway and straight into hell.

As my cranial barometer spikes, someone grabs my ankle. It freaks me out. His body trembles uselessly, but somehow he holds on like a vice. I panic, kicking him away as I take to the air.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

The room is cavernous. Some sort of huge loading dock with a big clear tube in the middle, like a Habitrail, but bigger for bigger rats.

What'd they do, sublet this place from Dr. No?

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

It figures, the military has all the latest toys. There are tanks and helicopters and Humvees. It's almost like they're planning a war. Of course, that's what armies do. It's scary. Their job description reads: we destroy stuff and kill people. Scarier still, they try to pitch that as a good thing and somehow they get away with that.

I could probably get out through the elevator shaft, but that's not what I need. I need to be at the exact point the Scotland witches are focused on. If I'm not, Buffy could come through at any moment and all this…

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

Swooping around, I draw random patterns in the air. The thumping in my head matches my changes in direction and elevation. It makes me woozy, but I have no choice. If I stay put, I'm a goner. The chaos builds. I ignore it—all of it—and cast another spell.

The blast only took out about a quarter of the soldiers. The remaining three-quarters have nothing to do except try to kill me.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

And they do.

Flashes of light erupt below me when they take aim and fire. The smell of gunpowder permeates the air along with a deafening roar. I clutch Amy to my stomach with my free hand. If she gets hit, this'll all be for nothing.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

As I search for the portal, I lob quickly conjured energy bolts. They aren't as strong, but they do what I need them to. The men that are hit are taken out of the fight.

The first time I get shot, I feel it. It's just my left upper arm, but still the pain isn't something I can compare. It spins me around, out of control. I struggle to stay in the air.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

Thankfully, none of it lasts long. My body gets overwhelmed and shuts down. The next one just feels like a wasp sting, it goes numb so quickly I barely flinch. I tumble, but it's no big.

I wonder how long it'll be before the rest of me shuts down.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

Not long.

That's a comforting thought. But it's true. At this rate…

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

What I want, or what I think I want, lies on the far side of the loading dock next to a pair of bay doors. It looks like a huge metal onion, but it's not. If I'm right, it's a cannon, or sort of…

I reach out and touch the controls, inspecting them as I zip around the room.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

If I were meaner spirited, I might line the soldiers up to shoot each other. I could.

I'm not. Just the thought makes me that much queasier.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

I take a page from their book. Being avoidy, I use the time to build power. When I have enough, I conjure a fireball and launch it at a pallet of crates. No telling what's in them. But again, military…

The crates catch fire and the soldiers scatter. It takes a sec for the explosion to happen. It's pretty impressive. Leave it to the military to have something just lying around that'll make a bigger, better boom.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

I use the diversion to reach the cannon. There's a faint shimmer in front of it. The Scotland witches are right on time.

The controls are simple enough. Selecting a location is pretty pointless. It's already set to where I don't want to go, but where I _need_ to go. The rest is just charge and shoot. Already charged and shooting…

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

The portal forms.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

As I step in, I cast one final spell, carelessly chucking a ball of crackling blue light over my shoulder.

The blast when their funny portal cannon thingy blows up—it isn't small. If I had fillings, they'd be missing.

Awash with blinding light and roaring sound, I go limp.

Something unseen seizes my ankles.

My body compresses.

I'm ripped forward—pulled almost to the point of snapping.

Squished, stretched and spat out.

This is like being shot through a soda straw…or I suppose…

Hurling through the air, I bounce and tumble to an abrupt halt, smashing into a stone wall.

There's movement all over the room. Anxiety and panic crush in around me.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

It takes me a second to understand that I picked up a passenger on my way out. My first hint's the stifled groan. It comes from somewhere between me, the wall and the floor.

Buffy?

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

Silly slayer, she must've tried to catch me.

Not complaining, she probably saved my life. I block the others out, concentrating fully on her. She's hurt, but not bad. Stiff and sore mostly. A few bumps and bruises. Way better than me. Breathing…

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

Trained apes with guns are just as much fun. That's sorta what got me here. I inhale a shallow, trembling breath. It doesn't hurt so much yet, but it will. The tight feeling across my chest tells me my ribs are cracked.

Weak and sluggish, Buffy shifts her legs, moving us both. Sharp pain cuts through my side, but I try to stay focused on her.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

«Y'know, it's not very often that I get caught with my pants down.»

'Kay, catching up again…I want to giggle. If I could, it'd just hurt like hell. All I can manage is a weak grin. And even that's painful.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

As she gently rolls me away, the same thing occurs to her. «I seriously need to rethink that last thought. Actually, I may need to completely swear off idioms. Embarrassing images aside, that was just plain wrong.»

Flat on my back on the cold stone floor, I really, really need to giggle now.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

Still nothing…

The discomfort's cute. A little disturbing, but cute. «I hate my brain.»

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

She touches the side of my face. «Considering the circumstances…» Her fingertips trail down onto my neck. «…the massive fireball and the projectile Willow…» She locates my pulse and glances at her watch, counting and pondering. «…I'm just grateful they aren't all laughing. 'Cause me with the catching, the tumbling and the kersplat…it had to look funny.»

Not that I'm the best judge, but I think it's safe to say there's not a single soul in this room who found that funny.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

«Portals aren't supposed to do that, right?»

No, Buffy, they're absolutely _not_ supposed to do that. I should actually try to tell her that soon before she really wigs.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

«Wow! This is screwed up!»

Speaking of…

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

She pushes herself the rest of the way up, swings her legs around and kneels next to me. «There's nothing funny here now.» I must look awful 'cause her angst level goes through the roof.

Her hand returns to the side of my face. She strokes my hair back. The touch is deceptively tender. Underneath, there's a storm brewing. She's really not impressed. "What the hell just happened?" she snaps.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

The other witches are flat clueless. They could probably speculate, but that might be dangerous around a hacked-off Buffy. Maybe they've picked that up by now?

Hoping to put some of the unease to rest, I mumble, "It was me."

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

_Wow_, I sound horrible. And go figure, I just make things worse.

Anxiety positively drips off her as she leans in and whispers, "We need to get you to a hospital, Will."

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

My eyes snap open. It scares her. She almost jumps. Let's get one thing perfectly clear, missy, no hospitals. I didn't like them before and I like them even less now. I mouth the word 'no.' Neither of us wants to hear my voice again.

Her brow furrows thoughtfully as she scans my face, taking in my resolve. «Well, I guess that settles that. If she's strong enough to get pissed at me for mentioning the h-word, she'll live.»

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

Her concern comes to rest on the dried blood underneath my right eye. «Bloody tears really are just horror movie camp, right? I've never seen them. Not that I'm a total expert, but really—»

I let some of the tension go, forcing my expression to relax. My eyes drift closed. Holding them open is lots more effort than it's worth.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

«I don't see much choice.» She climbs to her feet. «Or maybe this is just me being selfish as hell again.» Stooping, she carefully tries to lift me. «Honestly, it's probably a little of both.»

Careful or not, it goes badly. All the numb and the shock drift away. Sharp pain slices through my shoulder, starting out dull and building as I rise. My clavicle's broken. I let out a gasp in spite of myself. My face twists. It's bad.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

I don't want to scare her. She probably doesn't know how right she is, but—

This is the only valid option. I'm not gonna last long around all of these people. The sick and the dying really would kill me. But I might just be able to stand her. She can help me. I clamp my jaw, trying to fight back the tears.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

She takes in my reaction, but continues to lift. Maybe she can tell that I'm fighting it? «There's no point in discussion. This isn't open to debate. If she's not going to the hospital, then she's coming with me. And we seriously need to bail. The only thing that'll stop me is her. I have the feeling that if she wanted me to, even now, I wouldn't have much choice.»

I'm just grateful she wants to.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

I've always loved this about her. She's positively territorial about the people she cares for. It's written all over her now, every gesture, every thought.

My right arm dangles, utterly useless. Holding me up with her thigh, she takes it and places it on my tummy. Once it's stationary and I'm supported, things get better.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

I don't think either one of us got exactly how bad things were till she moved me. I know I didn't. My arm was fine, or it worked when I stepped into the portal. I suppose the landing was worse than I thought.

The bag's still hanging from my good shoulder. I'm surprised she doesn't feel it, but I guess she's as numb as I am. The fact that I'm making her wet and miserable hasn't hit her yet either. Or at least she hasn't complained.

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

I mumble, "The bag." She looks, trying to figure out what the hell I'm talking about. It's not like it's small, but—

She gets it. The trouble is, it's pinned between us. Xander steps in to help. She loosens her grip and he slips it away.

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

Poor Xander, his thoughts are all scattered. I wish there was something I could do.

There is. Making eye contact, I force a thin smile. It's the best I have. I hope it doesn't look too phony.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

His face is all soft with compassion. When he returns the smile, I say, "Quarantine her till I can—"

My voice is a little stronger. That actually sounded sort of like a command. One I couldn't complete, but close enough.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

They need to get how dangerous this is. I have no clue what Amy can do now. And that rock. It looks totally harmless. The harmless looking stuff's usually the worst. Or it could just simply be a rock. No clue.

Yeah. In what reality do we ever get simple?

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

"Okay," he replies and passes the bag off to the other witches. When he faces us again, his brow is furrowed. "Did you say 'her'?" he asks.

Buffy meets his gaze and grins. «He's right. Totally funny and confused, but right.»

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

Curious too, she peers down at me and I mumble, "Make sure they check the pockets too." The look on my face frightens her. I'm trying to be firm, but—well, it must be the pain.

She gets it, thinking the same. I put on another weak smile. Maybe it'll reassure her. Doubtful, but maybe…

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

«I need to get her out of here. Me holding her like this, it isn't making anything better.»

As she slowly moves toward the stairs, I whisper, "Don't touch anything."

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

«That does it. I have to know.» She swings around. The witches have the bag open between them. They stare into it, appearing bemused. She walks over and looks down. I wish I had a camera 'cause her expression's just priceless.

«Uh-boy.»

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

She giggles. The poor witches twitch when the ha-ha only lasts as long as the ha-ha lasts. She snaps volatile. Shooting a scalding glare at them, she commands, "I want that bitch…" she looks into the bag "…locked down. Twenty-four hour guard and the strongest suppression field you've got."

«Yeah…that was rational. But it's not like they don't already think I'm nuts, so…»

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

The poor witches. What were their names? Margaret and Jessica, I think. I should remember, but whatever. They aren't exactly receptive. And I don't blame them. Buffy's been walking a pretty thin line. Wigging over a rat? That has to be a new pinnacle of weird for them.

I make eye contact with Margaret—I think—and whisper, "Please." The nod she gives is all I need.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

Buffy, on the other hand, wants them to understand. She gives Xander a meaningful glance and turns away. «They need to know the sitch. The thing that did this is—well, one thing's for sure, Will seriously gave the bitch what she deserved. There might just be a tiny bit of justice left in the world.»

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

«But usually only if we make it.» Starting for the stairs, she grumbles, "Thanks. It's been a long night. We should all get some rest."

Thank God!

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

She's so careful, but each step still feels like an assault. I don't care. Each one carries me a little farther from the racket. I'm glad to trade the pain for some peace.

«I've never seen her like this before.» Refusing to take her eyes off me, she registers every jolt. «The dungeon might not have been the best choice. Sixty steps, each one of them bad.»

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

It's kind of strange, she's actually counting. Fifteen steps per flight. A distraction…

The other slayers on her team carefully slip past us one at a time. As they each cast a sympathetic glance, she returns a smile. But her expression is strained and thin. She wants to reassure them, but she's not sure herself.

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

When they're out of earshot, she murmurs, "Take what you need." «We've been here before. It wasn't this bad, but we both get it. She's not gonna get better any time soon without help.»

Thank you.

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

I have trouble starting. It scares me, especially after what just happened. It'd be so easy to…

But finally, I manage to very gently do what she asks. A tear trickles down my cheek. I won't do this without permission. And even with permission, I can't help feeling guilty. Kennedy sorta broke me—

She senses the pull and smiles. «That's it. It's okay, Will.»

It's a defensive thing now. Doing this to someone I care for is just…

«You're fine. I'm not even sure where I'd be without—»

_I see the moon and the moon sees me._

I'm grateful for the pain. Maybe it'll hide—

My face it—

She snickers, but there's no mirth in it. It's a soft, ugly, cynical sound. «That's not true. I know exactly where I'd be without you.»

_The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see._

I need her to stop, but I can't—

I don't—

There's nothing I can do.

«Thing is, I never told you…»

_Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me._

«We were all so busy looking at how bad things were—» she makes that same cold sound «—and making them worse. It was hard. All I could see was what you took from me.»

She doesn't stop. And I can't drown her out. I'm in no shape to run. And fighting—?

I might be able to teleport. I'm not sure where I'd end up, but—

_Goddess bless the somebody I'd like to see._

I don't care. I can't take this. As I prepare to use her…

«I totally missed it.»

…to run away, she—

«I'm so sorry.»

I—

«I should say that sometime. I should tell you how sorry I am. Not now, but—»

Tears stream down my cheeks. I need to stop. She won't—

«Later, I promise. I'll tell you how much—»

She won't understand.

«What you did was selfish. It was the most selfish, reckless, foolish, stupid thing anyone's ever done for me.»

I can't stop. All I can do is hope that she'll think it's—

«You risked everything. I know you did. You couldn't have done that if you didn't love me. And somehow I missed that.»

A smile warms my face.

«I don't know how. I guess I was just too busy feeling sorry for myself.»

And now I just look conflicted. That's nice.

«Anyway, I need to tell you I understand now.»

No, you don't.

«It's pretty obvious you still do, even if you are…»

Finally, I do the sensible thing. As I use her gift to bind my shoulder, the questions surface. At first I just feel them. She's curious.

«I don't know what's wrong. I just wish you'd say something. I need to at least know where that bitch took you.»

I'll get around to answering, but I need to…I'm in too much pain to deal with this right now. She makes me uneasy, but I can't block this any more than I can block anything else she thinks.

«What the hell did she do? I had to get out of that room if for no other reason than the overwhelming desire to splat a rat. She'd look so much better under my boot.»

As I bite my lip to keep from snapping 'no,' a chill runs down my spine. Not you. I won't allow it. If that time ever comes, I'll stop you.

«How'd you get away? I was all set to make with the big rescue and…»

And I'm so glad you didn't.

«What's the deal with all the soldiers? This is seriously smelling like that shit from Freshman year. The whole military vibe wigs me out. After Riley, I practically twitch over olive drab as it is. Not that it ever was a good color by any stretch, but it got worse.»

Things eventually get easier. With my shoulder immobilized, the pain isn't nearly so bad. And once the questions pass by unanswered, she settles down, just vacantly focusing on moving. We actually make it up half a flight of stairs in relative calm.

But Xander comes up behind us as she starts up the third flight of stairs. She's kind of impatient and overprotective. I feel her tense when she senses him.

Not bothering to slow, she gives him a sidelong glance and asks, "Are we all on the same page now?"

«Yeah, but aren't you forgetting something?» He keeps that to himself, replying with a curt nod instead. She's in no mood.

When she notices that he's holding the scythe, her face flushes just a little. It's kind of cute.

«I totally spaced…»

«Uh.»

Yeah, you might need that.

"Thanks," she mumbles. «At least one of us is doing our job.»

In all fairness…it's not like there's been a shortage of stress. I guess I should be flattered.

"No problem," he whispers, but his attention's fixed on me. He's worried and afraid to say anything. I could ask him for a first aid kit, but I have a feeling that'll come, even if it is sort of pointless now.

«I could be on fire and he wouldn't notice,» she reflects. There's no jealously in it. It's just a statement of fact.

After several moments of silent trudging, he asks, "Anything?"

She shakes her head, considering, «He's as curious as I am. I get that. I wish I had something, but there's nothing new to report.»

We reach the top of the third flight of stairs and turn the corner. «Just one more and it'll be over. The wincing isn't so much now, but it still wigs me out. It was stupid of me to move her like this. I need to get that shoulder bound. Leave it to me to get all protecty and forget that there's other stuff. It's just—»

She freezes when I struggle to get my pinned left arm loose. I want to hold on, but it's trapped against her tummy.

«I'm sorry. I needed to get you out of there. I kept thinking another freaking portal would…»

Xander sees what's going on and steps in and helps me free my arm. I wrap it around her waist. Slowly trailing my hand up her back, I caress her. It's good communication. The best kind, really. I don't have to keep track of what she thought and what she actually said. Remembering is hard.

I can't—if I slip up, it'll be bad. I just can't. I'm so sorry.

I remember. I remember how I felt—the way we treated you. And I don't want that. I just couldn't bear it.

When I hook my hand over her shoulder, she starts up the last flight of stairs. It's like this huge weight lifts from her—from them, really; Xander's calmer too. All with that one little gesture.

Opening my eyes, I study her as she moves. So strong. She notices me and looks down, meeting my gaze. And so vulnerable.

I just—I did what you asked. I tried to do everything you asked of me.


	3. Blue: Oh Five Hundred

**Summary:** 'Call an optimist, she's turning blue…' For those of you who recognize this, the words 'I didn't want to know,' should be flitting through your brain. That's where we find Xander at this juncture of the tale. He's deeply concerned by the behavior of his friends, but the reality is…

**Rating:** FRM: Mature Audience: Parents Strongly Cautioned. There are sexual themes in the final scene that simply aren't suitable for anyone below the age of consent.

**Word Count:** 13,850.

**Beta Reader:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing: **Story three and we're still nookie-free. Believe it or not, I think it's possible to tell a story within an existing fandom without ever scrunching a single character's name. Not my plan—I like writing femslash too much—but it's _possible_. I simply wish to construct a foundation for said 'scrunch' to rest on when I'm done. Radical idea, I know. Wish me luck.

**Disclaimer: **Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Blue  
Oh-Five-Hundred**

* * *

Y'know, it really didn't hit me till—

My alarm goes off, completely derailing my train of thought. I flinch. And no wonder. It makes this shrill buzzing sound, like Brundlefly huffing helium. I resist the urge to bury my head under a pillow. It's the last thing I want, but I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Both actions take way more effort than I've got to give.

Peering blearily at the stupid clock, I groan and rub my eye. The profane number five mocks me from the first column.

Profane? I snicker. Yeah, pretty twisted. It was twisted around, facing the other way since last time I looked.

All but falling out of bed, I stagger across the room to shut it off. Chucking it out the window sounds like a better plan, but…

I stretch instead and grumble, "You're a goner when I get a minute."

Like I've had a minute in months. It's sad. My clock has job security because I don't have time to see straight, let alone shop for another.

I haven't even gotten much more than a single z in recent memory. No plural z's for me. One's plenty. It's fun. It makes you do all kinds of crazy stuff. Like try to put your pants on backwards.

See? Fun…

Witness me having fun.

I take advantage of the temporary aloneness, scratching my lower back and regions slightly south as I trudge to the shower. Give it an hour. I'll be up to my neck in teenage girls. And while that sounds great in theory…

Actually, it sounds like the answer to a prayer and a fantasy all rolled into one. One really naughty fantasy.

It's not.

It's a little disturbing how many things seem to work that way. You look at the box, or worse, the commercial and you think, 'Man, that looks good.'

I turn on the shower and stare blankly into the tub. At least the water swirls the right way here. There's some comfort in that swirl.

Attractive packaging. There's so much of it.

Like, take the Big Mac. They look great on TV. But when you get there and actually pay the pimply-faced kid for the two pieces of thick black cardboard covered in slimey green stuff that might've been lettuce in a former life, slathered in chunky, vomit-pink paste and sandwiched between three pieces of hard, golden-brown Styrofoam it's, umm…

This might be pathetic, but I could really go for a number two. Super Size it.

Nah, it's McDonalds. Worse than cigarettes…and arguably just as carcinogenic.

There should be a patch.

After testing the water, I slip off my PJs and climb into the shower. And again with the effort…

The hot water does something—not nearly enough—but some of the haze lifts. It's like my head depressurizes. Despite how that sounds, it's a good thing.

I pick up a sponge. As I pour some soap and lather, the shower fills with the smell of pine.

Almost…

Mechanically, I wash myself and shampoo my hair. Mid-lather, another shrill sound destroys any glimmer of hope I might've had for a good day. It's another day, like the days before.

Time to make the doughnuts…

I used to just get them. Now that the shine's worn off the promotion, I think I liked it better that way. But I was too stupid to see. I didn't understand that the ones in the know are pretty much as much 'in the know' as the ones who know nothing.

Now, I just don't know.

Quickly rinsing, I turn off the water, spring out of the shower and slip.

Sliding…

My arms windmill. Stuff crashes. It's morning.

I catch the door jamb, cheating The Powers That Be So Kind to Me out of their belly laugh…this time. My pride mostly intact, I reach through the doorway, grab a towel and run to answer the phone.

Well, I'm awake now. And shivering.

I quickly swab my ear with the towel and grumble, "Hello." If 'hello' doesn't work, I've got a couple of other ideas that might.

Through the scruffling sound of me attacking my hair, Renee announces, "Mr. Harris, we need you in Ops immediately." Somehow, I'm not surprised.

I wrap the towel around my waist before I ask the obvious, "What's up?" I let the formality slide. It's way too early to give her the satisfaction.

Renee replies, "Detective Comics number eight-thirty-five?"

I struggle with the reference. Wow. I think I've just been out-geeked by someone not Andrew. That's pretty amazing. But maybe it's just that I'm exhausted. When I murmur a noncommittal, "Uh-huh," she goes on, "Remember how the Scarecrow escaped Arkham?"

Oh, shit!

That's the lame book where the Scarecrow hypnotizes everyone. No wonder I didn't remember. Exceptionally heavy on violence and mayhem, obscenely light on plot and grammar; it's one of the worst Batman books ever, with or without the Boy Blunder.

It figures we'd rate the worst.

She tries to say something, but I cut her off with another, "Uh-huh"—this one's lots more wigged—and stammer, "I'll be right down," rushing to hang up the phone.

Great!

I hope the girls are okay. Nah, uh…

I'm sure they are. Renee would've been a lot more freaked if—

Two and two click. Crap. I really wish they wouldn't do that. Making it through breakfast able to feign blissful ignorance would nice just this once.

But a fuzzy gray rodent causes the first twinges of a headache to set in behind my vacant eye instead.

Y'know, that's gotta be it. No matter how much you want it not—

Detective Comics number eight-thirty-five. Amy flew the coop. It's gonna be another day.

I roll my eye. What's missing moves too. It's been over a year and that still feels weird.

Dressing at warp eleven-point-five, I come dangerously close to the 'pants on backwards' thing. But it's all good.

I can hardly wait to see Buffy. That's gonna be fun. The 'I should sell tickets' kind of fun. She makes Captain Willard look like a paradigm of mental stability.

I don't even kill myself when the phone rings again. There's a better solution. I ignore it this time.

It's not like things haven't been rotten enough without the help. Not to mention confusing. We really don't need this. One day she's flirting with me. Or at least, I _think_ that was flirting. It's hard to tell with her.

Tempting, but—

And, minor miracle, I even remember to brush my teeth.

Like I'd go there now. Good thing too, 'cause next day I was dangling from her bedroom door.

Her baggage really needs its own postal code.

Uh…

Yeah…

_No._

I made that mistake once. It nearly got me killed. Think I'll skip the second feature.

I rush out my door, only to turn right back around. I forgot my stupid eye patch. I don't give a damn what the doc says. I do all the stuff I'm supposed to. There's a list. The speech—in no way was that fun. But I'm not gonna show this piece of crap off. I don't care if it is a perfect match. It still looks weird, in an unpleasantly dead sorta way. And there's plenty of that to go around. I don't need to add to it.

Collecting my eye patch off the nightstand, I step in front of the dresser mirror to put it on. The eye that's not my eye stares vacantly back at me for only an instant. That's long enough. Once it's covered, I bail, heading for Ops at top speed.

It's really no wonder things are so weird. There isn't a single one of us that hasn't seen too much. And just for kicks, grins and giggles, the 'too much' keeps on coming.

Yet here I am.

Where else would I be? Pounding nails gets pretty dicey without depth perception.

As I round the corner that leads to the stairwell, I run into a slayer patrol. Three of the younger girls, making the rounds on the shift nobody wants. Go figure, I'm here too. I put my hand up in greeting. They smile, sidestepping me before I get the chance.

Huh…

Maybe my sense of self preservation's finally kicking in. That'd be just spiffy. And about damned time. Out of the five—mostly demonic—women who've shown an interest, only three have really gone out of their way to kill me. And the only one who's still alive is Faith.

It's a great theme…paving the way to too much Patsy Cline, Schlitz and titles like 'Man Servant.' Good times!

My jaw muscles tighten. They throb, making my headache that much better.

I keep waiting for Renee to try to kill me.

Or die.

I pause on the stairs for just a sec and take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut as I force myself to relax.

I need to keep moving. So I do. I turn the corner and jog down a flight of stairs. At the next landing, another well-needed reason to dread comes to mind: Willow.

I'm not sure which one of them worries me more. I've never seen Will like this. And that's saying something. She's, uh, I dunno…

One minute… Will's always been a little flakey. It's one of the things I love about her. But now she's super-duper, amazingly, extra flakey, with a side of nuts. I might even use the word 'addled,' if I used words like 'addled.' I leave them for Giles.

And then she's not. Then she won't say a word. It's like she's mad, or hurt, or depressed… She only gets quiet when there's something really wrong.

At the landing, I turn left and dash down the hall.

I don't get it.

It's like hot and cold running Willow. Just like Buffy, there's something really off. The most disturbing part is that I can't even put my finger on what.

I pause outside Ops, drawing in another deep breath. All the fun I'm not having ties my stomach in knots. Once I locate my poker face, I push the doors open and step inside, giving Renee an expectant glare.

My glare doesn't last long. I fixate on the surveillance video playing out on the large screen behind her as she explains, "I'm sorry, sir. That was a bad example. I tried to tell you no one was hurt, but you hung up. And you didn't answer when I called back."

The timestamp on the video reads: four-forty-six. That was only thirty-seven minutes ago.

A portal forms in Amy's cell directly in front of the slayers who were standing guard. Gina and Jody, I think. With over two-hundred girls here, it gets kinda hard to remember who's who. They continue to talk like nothing's going on. There's no way they don't see that, but it's situation normal…

…all fouled up…not to mention a little surreal. I study the animated gestures, giggles and gossip as Renee reports, "The girls are both under observation. The mystics gave them a clean bill of health, but this worries me. It worries me more than—"

I interrupt her by mumbling, "Yeah, I get that."

These girls weren't hypnotized. Or I don't think they were. It's like they've been blinded to what's happening.

So, maybe that is hypnosis? Like I'm an expert. Sounds like hypnosis. But they're chatting too casually. The conversation's just _so_ normal. You'd think there'd—

Without tearing my attention from the view screen, I ask "Did the mystics sense anything? I mean, besides the portal?"

"No, sir."

A tall, redheaded woman steps through the portal. There's this look about her that just isn't right. Not that it matters. The 'not right' sort of goes without saying.

Thing is, just like men, there's stuff women do because they like it. And there's stuff they do because we like it. The way she looks is like the latter gone horribly wrong. A sausage casing would be more comfy. But the really unmeshy part is her boots.

Gah! Now I sound like Buffy. But she's wearing flats and they just don't match the 'my pimp poured me into this' look. It's weird.

The irritating strumpet even winks at the camera before grabbing Amy's cage and stepping back through. She knew.

How could she know?

Simple enough. Whatever happened, she did it, or had something to do with it. But it wasn't magic. Really weird.

I mumble, "Drugs?" more to myself than to Renee.

She answers anyway. "They were clean, sir."

I'm not surprised. Lacing their food, or whatever—it'd take an inside man, er, umm…inside _woman_. I'm the only man here. And it wasn't me.

Well, at least that part's comforting. The rest—the entire idea of a double agent—

While that makes for a great video game, I'm gonna come down firmly against it. It'd be a mess of monumental proportions.

And probably way too simple to pull off.

Now, that _really_ is comforting.

I say through a sigh, "Alright, well…" Taking a breath, I pick back up a second later, sigh-free, but totally tempted to sigh again, "We need to get this over with." Resisting the urge, I cross the room, completing my thought as I go. "See if you can raise the others." I grab up my headset from the charger by my workstation and put it on.

Another day, another…they don't pay me nearly enough to put up with this crap.

Renee asks, "Should I contact Buffy?" And boy, does she sound thrilled.

They say that the secret to happiness in positions like this is learning to delegate. And right now, I'm completely in touch with that. "Nah, I'll handle it," I reply. That doesn't mean I'll do it.

After taking a seat at my desk, I dial the extension. The phone rings. I ignore the creepy-crawlies that skitter down my spine. There's no reason…nothing valid anyway. I just hate bad news. Being the bearer always makes me feel like I'm headed for an execution.

Or at least raised voices and PG-13 violence.

Buffy finally picks up, but refuses the request for a video feed. No surprise there. Her, "Hello," sounds as bad as mine did. Maybe worse.

"Hi, Buff, it's Xander. Sorry to call so early, but there's been a problem," I state. Short, sweet and to the point.

She asks, "What?"

And I continue that theme, bluntly admitting, "Amy escaped." My voice doesn't even waver. I'm getting better at this.

Waiting's the worst. I hold back the cringe, or almost. I give it my best shot. It's kind of half a cringe. Really more of a faint shrug. As victories go, it's damned pathetic.

There's this hollow noise when she puts her hand over the receiver. A few moments pass. I can almost hear them, but not quite. Finally, she says, "I'll be right down."

The phone goes dead. I hang up and let go the breath I was holding. I have no clue whether that was the worst of it or not. If so, I got off easy. But probably not. The math isn't that hard. Anything we might've learned just walked out the door with Amy.

But square one's not such a bad place to be, right? Comfy, inviting, familiar…it's almost like home.

Who am I kidding? Buffy's gonna be so pissed off she'll make Quentin Tarantino's work look like John Hughes.

Though, I could see some serious crossover potential between those two. Or maybe just a cameo. Who wouldn't want to watch Macaulay Culkin take Marvin's place in the backseat of Jules' car? I'd pay ten bucks for that.

It sucks. I feel too bad for Will to stay amused for long. I hope she's alright. She paid way too much for a whole lot of nothing. I wish I could do something, but there's nothing to do unless she lets me. And it seems pretty unlikely she will.

Maybe Buff will be able to get through to her, or she'll get through to Buffy. Either way would be dandy. I'm not picky. I'll take anything positive right about now.

And the nothing…

All we've really got is that the army wants us dead. That went swell last time.

And there's another squiggly, pretty-much-meaningless symbol. Those are always fun.

This reeks of Big Bad.

Bored Big Bad, sitting around, doodling. Maybe it's just me, but I'm picturing Moons Over My Hammy, stale coffee and a paper napkin. The Bad draws a swishy arc, a straight line and a star. 'Uh…no, this'd be better with a four-pointed star.' Scribble, scribble…

'Oh, that's good! Now all I have to do is find a bunch of idiots dumb enough to carve this into their flesh and I'll be in business.'

'I know! There are lots of idiots in the armed forces.'

Huh.

Not exactly a beautiful sunset, but it's almost a theory.

Y'know what? Little Miss Mood Disorder was Ginsu-free. That is, unless it was buried somewhere between the mountains of cleavage. I wonder if that means something.

She might be the artist. It wouldn't be hard to get a bunch of grunts to follow a chesty redhead.

It's either that or she and Amy are working for someone else. And that someone else isn't as fond of carving up the scenery.

Now there's a cheery thought. More than one psycho that wants us dead. I'll pass.

And quickly moving on, I'm sure I can find another disturbing thought before Renee reaches Giles.

But I don't need to. There's plenty to be disturbed by without my help. Robin Wood does an exceptional job of illustrating the point when I look up. He looks like death on burnt toast.

Next to Wood, but not really next to him, is Andrew. Andrew's nearly a polar opposite. He wears a red silk smoking jacket and a big silly grin. It looks like there was a party in Rome last night and he hasn't bothered to sleep yet.

Must be the life. At least one of us is having a good time.

I can't help but grin. It's the split screen. It always makes me think, '_Brady Bunch_ from Hell.' It'd be funnier if I could convince them to face each other. Maybe look around a little. No such luck…

Yet.

I stand up from my desk and walk to the center of the room, next to Renee. My grin's still there, all lopsided and intentionally quirky, when I say, "Morning."

It works. Even Wood cracks a smile, but that doesn't last.

Trying to be friendly, I ask, "Anything new?" I hope he answers. He looks like he could stand to talk.

Go figure, Andrew beats him to it. "Carla managed to sneak in a call last night. She says the Immortal's been acting really weird."

I nod. It's pretty unusual to hear from Carla. She's been on deep cover assignment for over a year. Almost everyone believes Buffy's in Rome because of her, including Angel.

"I'm not sure what the deal is, but he's definitely up to something. He's had several closed door meetings. And last night Carla said he snuck out. She tried to follow him, but he gave her the slip," Andrew explains. Appearing pensive, he takes a deep breath. This is bad. He's building steam. Andrew, in top form, can out-babble a highly caffeinated Willow. And not one to disappoint, he starts in, "You don't suppose it was some sorta clandestine rendezvous? Like _Mission: Impossible_. On the water front, all gritty and a little bit sexy—kinda Film Noir—with guns and everyone's shooting. Oh, and Tom Cruise—"

Thankfully, Wood interrupts, "That's exactly what I think." He doesn't look impressed. Andrew takes a clue and backs down.

I put in, "If someone shot the Immortal, they'd make my Christmas card list. Not that it'd do any good. But it'd annoy him." Smiling at Wood, I add, "It's the thought that counts, y'know?"

He cracks another brief grin and replies, "It really is," sighing before he takes his turn. "We've got a local vamp here, calls herself Kako. It'd be easy to laugh—maybe crack a few tasteless Star Trek jokes—if she wasn't so damned frustrating. We've been hunting her for months."

"Yeah, I think you've mentioned her. Kakoboyla?" I cut in during a pause, hoping he'll continue.

Andrew mumbles, "Malice." He sounds almost reverent.

Wood nods. "Yeah. She specializes in using the inner city gangs to do her dirty work." He takes a sip from his mug and wipes the corners of his eyes. Looking a little more alert, he continues his report. "Unlike most vamps, she has a knack for getting people to work together. Standard stuff: promises of immortality, money and infamy. But not-so-standard: her people are zealots."

Still coming off a little moon-eyed, Andrew interjects, "I think I've read about her. The girl's seriously got it going on."

And it's always helpful when we get a hankering for the evil dead. Like that's worked out well for any of us. Maybe Andrew should take a hint.

"Yeah, that doesn't help," Wood admits. "She's intelligent, well spoken, charismatic, driven, creative…all of the features we really don't need. But the worst part is, her people aren't gun-shy. It's been pretty rough."

A Giles square joins the other two, taking position above Andrew to the right. He remains silent.

I'm not sure Wood even notices. He's kinda lost in thought, staring into his cup as he recounts, "Her followers took another run at the Hellmouth last night. They abducted some girl off the street. We only just managed to stop them." After sipping at his coffee, he mumbles, "Without a squad leader, the team's not quite on par. Facing an extremely organized opponent—"

Giles doesn't look impressed. He interrupts, "What's become of Faith?" stopping Wood short.

"She hasn't returned since I sent her to Hough. Remember that nest we talked about?" he replies. The honesty hurts. He takes another drink of his coffee to cover.

Giles says, "I'll look into it."

The man's got monotone down to an art form. If I didn't know him so well, he might have me fooled. But he's got that crinkly thing going on. That thing he used to do right before he told me to shut up. I love it. Give it a minute. He'll have his glasses off and be clamping the bridge of his nose.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

I nod to Renee and say, "It's been a barrel of laughs here too. Now that Giles is with us, there's some more footage you guys should see." She walks over to her console and cues the surveillance video from late last night. Andrew, Giles and Wood all move into small framed boxes to the left and right of the display.

Now I'm really thinking _Brady Bunch_. I'd hum the theme if I didn't think Giles' head would explode.

The background is filled with a large image of Willow being sucked into the portal. The timestamp says midnight, on the dot.

The next piece of footage is from twelve-forty-eight. Another portal crackles to life and Willow flies out of it. She's closely followed by a huge, scary looking, green fireball. It engulfs the entire room for few seconds. The concussion shakes the camera and everyone goes sprawling. Everyone except Buffy. It's really hard to see, but she jumps into the fire and catches Willow. They both smash into the wall.

That looked even more painful on video. I cringe as Andrew exclaims, "That was so cool!" We all ignore him, but I have to secretly admit he's right. I may need to keep a copy of that for my collection. It makes most of the garbage Hollywood puts out look weak.

The view changes to camera two, focusing on the wall where Willow lays on top of Buffy. It takes a minute for either of them to move. I use the time to fill in, "The source of the blast is still unknown. We're waiting for Willow's report."

Buffy moves her leg. As she slowly sits up, she rolls Willow away, carefully laying her flat. Once they've seen that the girls are alright, or sort of alright, I nod to Renee. She queues the next video and I comment, "She didn't return alone. Giles, you should recognize the rat." The display then fades to the abduction footage I watched a few minutes ago.

Giles appears mildly amused when he mumbles, "Amy," for everyone's benefit.

The door to Ops opens as Catwoman passes into Amy's cell on the feed. I glance over my shoulder. Right on time, Buffy trudges into the room. I thought Wood looked bad. Her face is gaunt. She's really pale, all except the dark circles under her eyes. If I didn't know her better, I might be tempted to think she looks sick.

She hangs back out of the line of sight until the show ends. The 'gaunt' and 'bad' all sort of add to the 'pissed off.' She looks positively evil when she steps into view. It's an impressive feat for a petite California blonde. As she meets my gaze, I mouth, "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't you, Xander," she replies. Turning to face the others, she announces in the same matter-of-fact tone, "We're gonna figure out who this woman is, okay? And when we do…"

She seems momentarily preoccupied by an internal debate involving the merits of evisceration verses flaying.

Giles tries to offer, "Buffy, while I understand how upset you are—" only to be cut off.

"Do you?" she snaps. In a heartbeat, she goes from garden variety miffed to utterly furious. It's so quick. She actually freaks me out. I put more distance between myself and her as she rages, "'Cause I'm not sure _I_ do. Maybe you can help me out. I just know, I've had it up to here…" she slashes the air above her head "…with all this bullshit. I'm sick of the stupid little symbols and all of the petty, childish games."

She steps forward. I glance over at Renee. The monitor to her left shows our feed. It's a close up of Buffy's face. She must've played with her marks. Either that or it's the best dumb luck ever. I should totally dim the lights and give her a flashlight to hold under her chin.

"But you know what I'm most sick of?" she growls.

Giles doesn't waver. If she were looking at me like that, I'd be all over 'wavering.' Actually, I might even find a little 'skedaddle' to go with my 'waver.'

Her voice drops to a low, raspy hiss when she answers. "The people I care about getting hurt over this crap. They want me, so they hurt my friends. Tell me there's sense in that?"

"I'm afraid there is," Giles replies. "And what's more, _you_ know it. From a tactical standpoint, it's perfectly sensible. It upsets you and makes you behave irrationally."

Yeah, we've heard this song before. Didn't help then… Silly British man. The furrows in his brow deepen. He's really annoyed now. At what specifically, I'm not sure. There's kind of a list.

Renee backs the video up, freezing it to give us a good look at our new playmate. Actually, Catwoman's a pretty good nick. She's seriously trying for the look. Her hairstyle's more Halle Berry from that horrible Bond movie. Pierce Brosnan just shouldn't be Bond. Ever. It's a little longer, but it looks good. She has the bone structure to pull it off.

Okay, so…

Time out!

For the record: I'm scraping dangerously close to _Queer Eye for the Straight Guy._ The slayerettes are rubbing off on me. And not in a good way. I need some male friends. Immediately. Like, I should start looking today. Put an ad in the paper, maybe something on the Internet…

Yeah, so I can go from a wannabe Nick Fury with an understandable metrosexual flair to totally creepy and weird.

On a hopefully manlier, less stalkery strange note: I'm on the 'go Buffy' side of things this time. When the opportunity presents, I'll cheerfully help with the rending.

She opens her mouth to speak, but Giles interrupts, "Yes, I believe we've seen everything necessary to begin research. Perhaps we should adjourn until cooler heads prevail? Willow can file a report through interoffice mail easily enough."

"Hold up, Giles," Buffy snaps. Again, if I didn't know better, I'd say that sounded like an order. And _oh-boy_…it does nothing to improve the imagined anger Giles isn't displaying. I'm glad these two aren't in the same room 'cause getting between them…

Things haven't been the same since Giles went behind her back to try to dust Spike. I'm still thinking, 'Bravo, Giles' on that one. Doesn't mean I have to say it. In fact, saying it's the last thing…

But after everything went down, if Spike had still been around, I would've taken him out myself or died trying. I don't care what Buffy thinks.

And Buffy couldn't care less what Giles thinks. Intent upon speaking her piece, she continues, "Willow told me some stuff I need to pass on. She apologizes for not being here herself."

Spike always was a festering sack of shit. And strangely enough, I was okay with that. I could deal. It was predictable. But he did the one thing I can't excuse or forgive. Even an attempt…

After that, Buffy made a federal case out of his goddamned soul, like that somehow changed everything. Well, I've got some news for Little Miss Psycho Glee Squad: Jeffery Dahmer had a soul too. See how much good it did him?

But she didn't want to hear that any more than she wants to hear Giles now. And I guess that was a good thing. _Then_. Now it's just kinda…

Backing off from the camera, she says, "Will said the base is underground. She wasn't sure where. Just that it's huge. There's at least a company stationed there, led by some general."

Andrew and Wood listen with interest. When it becomes clear that the rant's over, Giles chills.

Things almost feel normal as her report continues, "The explosion was caused by her taking out their portal generator. A lot of good it did. They obviously have a spare. But from the sound of things, they have lots of spares."

I have to wonder what's gonna break next. But that's just me.

Her attention turns to Wood. She says, "The woman on the video is named Riah. She's a slayer. If that rings any bells, I'd like to know." Pausing, she gives the others a moment to comment, then concludes, "'Kay, well, that's about it." She's almost out the door before I realize she's leaving.

I raise my hand, giving her a wave and say, "Buff, wait up." She doesn't stop, but I have to try. I need to know. Turning to Renee, I ask, "Would you mind?"

"Not a bit," Renee replies with a smile.

I ask the others, "Anything else?" They unanimously dismiss me and I make a break for the door. Worse comes to worst, I may be able to catch her before she reaches her room.

But I don't even have to run. When I leave Ops, she's at the end of the hall breaking up a fight. She stands between the two girls, holding them apart with her arms.

Before I reach them, the larger of the two takes a potshot at Buffy. It's kind of funny. She picks the smaller, mousy-haired girl up by the front of her shirt, swinging her around as she hooks the bigger one's leg. The tall, dark-haired girl topples over backward like a domino. Buffy plants the arch of her foot across the girl's throat.

Giving the smaller girl a shake, she asks, "We done? 'Cause if we aren't…"

When the dangling girl manages to get out a shaky, "Yes, ma'am," Buffy tosses her.

She hits the wall and Buffy says, "Get out of here before I forget I'm in a good mood." Nothing about her even remotely suggests a 'good mood.'

The brighter of the two takes off running toward the dorms as Buffy turns her interest to the brain trust on the floor. The girl's struggling, scrapping at Buffy's calf. I have to wonder why she went off her medication. Buffy puts a little more weight on her throat and turns to me to ask, "Think you can find something to entertain this one?"

I nod and reply, "I've got just the thing."

She levels her attention on the girl again and says, "There are two-hundred and eight bones in the human body." The evil's back. "I heard that in a movie once." But she's chipper, almost friendly. It's like she might be talking about the latest sale at Macy's or something. "Dunno if it's true, but I'm pretty sure you can guess where it's leading." Defying her sudden streak of 'kindness,' she puts more pressure on her foot.

The girl flails her arms and legs, desperately fighting to get up. There's this sort of sickly blue tinge to her skin when Buffy finally lifts her foot. I help the girl up and set off toward housekeeping. As Buffy steers her along with us, I ask, "What's your name?" I feel kinda bad asking, but…

When the girl supplies a hoarse, "Alice," I fill in, "Alright, Alice, I'm gonna introduce you to Susan and she's gonna find something for you to do. You'll spend the day working off some of that angst, or I'll have Buffy continue the anatomy lesson. We clear?"

"Clear, sir," Alice rasps.

Susan and I have an understanding. She's an interesting character. I couldn't believe it when she came to me and said she wanted to contribute. She's a slayer. That makes her contribution pretty much automatic. She's also damned sneaky. Without any other real skills, I gave her housekeeping. And now she's the one that really dishes out the punishment around here.

Did I consider the meanness for a moment? Probably not, but she's totally mean. And extremely useful. She's even built for the job. Sort of like what would happen if Gina Torres took a role as an army drill sergeant. Or how Kennedy might be if she ever learned that silence can speak volumes.

Just before we reach Susan's office, Buffy hangs back. Susan's reading her email. A soft knock gets her attention. She offers a chipper, "Good morning, Mr. Harris," as she sizes Alice up. The young, dark-haired slayer says nothing to being eyed like a particularly tasty sausage. She's withdrawn, morose even. At least her cheeks are pinking up.

For my part, I shrug off a cringe. It's only the fourth or fifth one this morning. I get a lot of practice. I don't think that she or anyone else here gets that Mr. Harris is a drunk jackass who made my life a living hell.

Well, Buffy gets it, but she's mostly not around. And Willow…

Sensing my annoyance, Susan cracks a grin.

I suppose it's all in fun. I should just keep shrugging it off. Maybe if I get better at that…

"Morning, Susan," I reply through a thin smile. "Would you mind keeping Alice busy today?" So much for 'better.'

"Not at all," Susan says as she stands.

With the platitudes out of the way, Susan doesn't waste any time making Alice miserable. She grabs a pair of rubber gloves, a bucket, a bottle of cleaner and a toothbrush, passing them off.

I feel compelled to stay. Alice was after all brain damaged enough to attack Buffy. None of these girls think that's smart. It's unnerving that she did.

But I shouldn't. Susan's got this. Staying would tell her that I think different. Like it or not, it's time to delegate.

As Susan leads Alice away, I thank her and head back down the hall to catch up with Buffy. She's hanging out in the alcove where we left her, appearing extremely bored. She hasn't been out of my sight for more than a minute or two, but still I'm surprised she waited. Glad, but kind of surprised.

As we stroll past Ops, I ask, "What happened?"

A contemptuous hiss slips out. She shakes her head and replies, "Hell if I know, Xander. Two-hundredish teenaged girls, all under the same roof, it'd be simpler to ask what hasn't happened."

I consider interrupting, but let her finish before clarifying, "With Will." It's just safer that way. She's in a really crappy mood.

Quickly wising up, she gasps, "Oh…" I glance over as she rakes her fingers through her hair. The gesture seems almost evasive. It's no real surprise that she answers, "I don't know much more than you do."

The brush off isn't gonna cut it. I don't care where she hangs me. I deserve some answers. Persistently, I prod, "Anything would be better than nothing." I try to add, "She's my friend too," but Buffy takes off. I have to run to keep up. She's out the door before I clue that she's headed for the stable. Once inside, she perches on Bernadine. I find a crate to lean on.

"Sorry, I just don't like all the cameras," she explains. When I nod, she continues, "I really don't know what happened. The last thing I remember is you leaving last night. I just don't think the others need to know that."

Meeting her eyes, I reply, "I can see that." She's a little better, or at least she doesn't look quite so pasty.

"I woke up like I am now. I don't remember dressing for bed. Yet here I am," she says with a flourish of her hand. The fact that she hasn't bothered to change out of the sweats she slept in is really un-Buffy. But I suppose, given the morning we're having, it's not all that shocking.

She says in a soft, thoughtful voice, "I had to seriously beg to get her to talk. She finally gave in and told me what I told you in there. The only thing I withheld was that Amy and Riah were trying to put something inside her."

And damn me.

Actually, damn her! Visions of Catwoman and Amy flood my mind. They have Willow strapped to a table. I shut my eye and blink it open, trying to drive the badness away.

Not quite reading my mind, Buffy grins. Or I hope that's 'not quite.' Anyway, the look on my face must've given me away. I clear my throat and ask, "Would you mind rephrasing that?"

Her grin fades and she clarifies, "They had some sort of device, like a rock or something. They cut into her eye and were going to put it into her."

"Whoa…'kay, so…the whole 'eye cutting' thing—not much better," I mumble.

She grows more sullen. I could swear she needs to cry, but she doesn't. Instead, she asks, "Have you ever seen someone who's been shot with a bulletproof vest on, Xander?"

I answer, "Yeah, on television." I don't really need any more. I get it. But what I need isn't important now. She needs to talk, so I let her.

Staring at her laced fingers, she reflects, "I needed to know. I mean, Will kinda took care of me for years, so I figured…" She looks up, meeting my gaze. "She won't go to the hospital. I've tried." Her expression hardens. "She's got at least three cracked ribs and a broken collarbone. I believe her right arm's fractured, but I can't tell. Her left wrist is badly sprained. And it'd take me days to list all of the bruises. I'm not even sure I saw them all."

To call her account of Willow's injuries 'dispassionate' would be an understatement, but the veneer wears thin at the end.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she wipes them before she continues. "Her collarbone's partially healed. She has really limited use of her hands this morning. It's gonna take time…" she hops off her bike, motioning for me to follow "…at least a few days. And that's with me helping." I match her pace as she heads back to the castle. "Think you can keep the others off my back?"

"I think I'll manage," I reply. I'm not sure why she wants to keep this between us, but I'm not going to question it. The one thing that's certain is she's telling the truth. She's as much in the dark as I am. Everything she told me, except her lack of memory, is something I could've figured out on my own.

The funny thing, she doesn't seem to care. I'd be a little worried about the memory lapse considering Will's history.

But that's the thing. That's how Buffy is. Their relationship was pretty strained last I saw. Now, all's forgiven. Just like with Spike. I can't forgive him, but somehow, she can.

It feels like selective memory. Like she forgets. People think she's flakey, but I see it different. I think it's because of the need. She can't stand to see someone she cares for suffer. That's just who she is.

As we approach the front of the castle, she stops and whispers, "I'm really sorry." It takes me a sec to get what she means. About the time it occurs to me, she adds, "For the other night. It's just been…" Her voice fades.

As I finish her thought, "Lots of fun. Heaps even," she takes my hands, turning me to face her.

Sighing, she murmurs, "Isn't it always?" A sad little smile betrays her, revealing just how confused and vulnerable she is.

I return the smile and confirm, "Always."


	4. Blue: Thirteen Fifty Three

**Blue  
Thirteen-Fifty-Three**

* * *

This is insane.

Y'know about the time I think I have some glimmer of insight—some idea what the heck goes on in their heads—they pull a major switcheroo that leaves me mystified.

_Women_.

Talking sense was worth a shot.

Actually, it was just useless. I talked, they ignored, and here we are.

I tune out all the movement going on around me and fixate on the main display. There are six squares this time, one for each member of the team. Buffy's camera is directed at Will. I stare at her face, trying to figure her out. She looks…

Her expression's utterly blank. She must be in pain, but I can't even tell that. She's like chiseled-Willow.

So why's she sitting in a helicopter waiting to be deployed?

If I knew that…

One thing's for sure, whatever's going through her head, it's a total one-eighty from where I was led to believe we were this morning. And considering the fact that it probably took her that long to plan this little shindig…

Yeah, that's not helpful. You'd think there might be some underlying sense of…

Well, _sense_.

There's not. But there might be some solidarity. Buffy was blindsided by this too. That much is obvious, even if I can't tell it to look at her face. I swear, they're like bookends…emotionally stunted, impassive, apathetic, frosty, not-quite-snooty _bookends_.

But all she wants is to protect Will. And Will's having none of it.

I really don't get her.

Why now?

I pulled Holly off the bench and gave Satsu lead on the Gilhaven drop tonight. And I'm not even sure that's what Buffy wants. I didn't get a chance to talk to her. After this, it wouldn't surprise me if she wanted to blow off some steam.

No clue.

I look at Willow again. Nothing's changed. An ice sculpture would give me more to go on.

Buffy called an hour after I shuffled the roster to cover her, demanding an unscheduled drop. I had to scramble to put this together and keep us on track. It made me wonder if she's even—

But that's just crazy. I know it is. I can't even think it.

Thing is, Buffy was so bent on this mission that she said if I couldn't make it happen, they'd just take a truck. I've seen her change her mind before, but nothing like this.

I don't even know how she talked the others into it. They've got plenty on their plates without her springing some spur-of-the-moment Easter egg hunt on them.

On top of all of the other weirdness today…Amy pulling a Houdini, Alice going off…

It wasn't just her. If it had been, I'd probably still think things were fine. The occasional fight's to be expected, but she was just the start. There've been spats breaking out all over. Renee even got into it earlier with some girl who dropped by to use the copier.

…this is just too much. It's only mid-afternoon and the crazy keeps right on coming. Maybe it's just that time of the month…cranked to eleven.

Or maybe it _is_ Will. She did kind of bust her pumpkin last night. Maybe she's projecting crazy. It wouldn't be the first time she's caused a bunch of random wackiness. And she is the new variable.

But that doesn't make any sense. Why would she let Amy go?

I guess it could be Amy. She did cast a nasty on Buffy. And she's the reason Will—

But that doesn't track either. Amy hadn't been gone an hour when Alice flipped out. And that still doesn't explain—

Oh, what are their names—the two girls who were guarding her, uh…hum…?

A groan slips out unchecked. Really, it's more of a harrumph. Anyway, it earns me a look.

Amy wouldn't have any power as a rat, so I guess that lets her off the hook. None of this is comforting. Nothing adds up.

I really don't see how Dawn changing into another random still-not-quite-Dawn-thing is gonna help. Will was pretty clear that this isn't a cure. It's just a way of speeding up the process. Seems like we've got enough going on without that. Personally, I think the last thing we need is another surprise. What if she becomes something dangerous?

Like she's not already dangerous. If whoever's messing with us pulls a Jedi mind trick on her right now, we're done.

That's just too awful to consider. I need to stop. Maybe this does make some sort of twisted, pretzel-shaped sense?

But I don't think that's what Will's thinking. In fact, I don't think she's considered that at all. This is about something else.

Well, whatever the case, I'm just along for the ride. I need to move on. Think about something else. Anything else. If keep this up, I'm gonna hop right on board with the crazy. Then where will we be?

As the helicopter banks, I switch my attention back to Satsu's camera view. I get a glimpse of a grassy field through the window behind Buffy before focusing on her face again. Back and forth and back and forth and still no closer.

I rub my face, brow to cheek, lingering to massage my temple. What a day.

It amazes me how much things change. And they never get any simpler. It's always…

I remember when we first met Buffy. It seems like ages ago. I couldn't understand why someone like her would be interested in Will and me. But that was as complex as it got…at least for the first few minutes. It was great. I was actually nervous about normal stuff. I thought Cordy had cooked up some scheme to humiliate us. I half expected an, 'Oh, by the way…'

That's how the in-crowd worked. It wouldn't've been above Cordy to con the new girl into feeding us to the lions as part of some insane rite of passage.

Ah…

I miss the good old days.

Almost as much as I miss my parents' basement.

Or my parents for that matter.

That's not how it went. She didn't and we didn't. And things got wiggy instead. But something happened, something really special. Buffy was supposed to be this lone warrior, Hellmouth guardian person. Like Kwai Chang Caine without all the aimless wandering. Boy, the Council was really under-whelmed when that didn't work out.

Irony doesn't get much thicker. The closer she got to that first thing, the more she pushed us away. It almost seems fickle when I put it that way. Like the less rebellious it was…

But that's not exactly fair. I get that she got hurt. She got hurt lots. We all did.

Again, not fair at all. She's the only one of us who died. Not surprising that it made her a little intense.

Not to mention jaded.

Thing is, right here, right now, she has something that would've made the Buffy I first met happy…_really_ happy, ecstatic even. Instead, what she is…

She's become exactly what C.O.W. wanted in the first place. Too bad they weren't around to see it.

Yet somehow, a moment of silence later, I find I'm not that torn up by the loss.

She works with the others, but only because she has to. There's no doubt that she's the _one_. A very singular entity. Even with body doubles and the occasional sex-bot.

I snicker and Renee gives me a sidelong glance. Yeah, I know. Look around. I'm not the only one.

It's sad. Here, now, doing what we're doing, everyone around Buffy does everything they can to reinforce the separation. She's singled out. And that's pretty much that…

Now what about Will? I take another long, hard look at her. The image is really grainy. I ignore that, staring through the fuzz into her eyes. What are you thinking?

She glances left. It's just a twitch, but that's enough.

Oh. Well, I'll be damned! That's just too obvious. No wonder I couldn't see it. She can't make eye contact. It's been almost twenty minutes since they took off and her attention's been everywhere else except on Buffy. She may look like a statue, but she's still the same old Will.

That's it. That's gotta be it. She doesn't want to be here one second longer than she has to. She's doing exactly what she needs to do to do right by her people. Then she's gonna leave.

I can't be sure, but I think that'll wreck Buffy. She hasn't reached out to anyone since Spike. At least I don't think she has. If Will takes off, Buff will probably dig in even further.

I just wish I knew what the heck was up with Will. Why would she do that? If she'd talk to me, I might be able to…but she doesn't want my help.

There's no time for this now. They're landing. I key my mic and say, "Alright, let's do this by the numbers." I sound so enthused. Not that it matters. This'll go the same as usual. We actually have a rule book now. Buffy helped write it. Doesn't mean she follows it. She plays until something hits her hard enough to piss her off, then she ends it.

I focus on Buffy's frame as she watches the team disembark. It's probably wrong that I think this looks cool. Pulses of wind whip everything around. The girls exit single file, stooping down, then fan out.

Backing away from the noise, Buffy raises her voice, not quite shouting, "Satsu, you stick with Will. Whatever happens, don't engage. Your only mission is to keep her safe, 'kay?"

That's not right, but I don't need to tell Satsu about her mission. It's pretty obvious from the bucket in her hand she knows what's up.

When she nods, Buffy turns, mid-stride and takes off, cutting a path through the tall, dry grass. "The rest of you, you're with me," she adds, motioning for the others to follow.

This is a snatch and dash. Satsu's job is to locate the underground lake, pond or puddle—whatever it is—from what I gathered it's not big enough to be a lake, but I've never heard anyone say 'underground puddle' before, so…

Anyway, she's supposed to locate _water_ and scoop up an egg while the rest of the team distracts the demon. This should be a cakewalk unless…

Keeping stride with Willow, Satsu falls in behind the others as they head for a craggy hill not more than a hundred meters away. The terrain's too rough for Terry to have gotten them any closer unless they jumped. And that was out because of Willow. She's just not well enough for that. Of course, making her walk isn't much better.

I can't believe she made a huge deal out of me 'jeopardizing the mission' when I asked to go along. I only wanted to be there for Dawn. She's my responsibility too. And while I know Will's right, I'd have to be blind and more than a little stupid to think that me tangling with a succubus is a good idea. I admit in no way would that've been smart. I just don't see why she can't.

That's my problem. I think she's really one to talk. I haven't figured out exactly what her type is yet, other than pretty people at large…and once upon a long time ago _me_. If anyone's gonna jeopardize this mission…

They reach the hill and the team moves single file up the rough path, passing between rocky outcroppings.

"Remember, don't make eye contact with the demon," Willow repeats for the umpteenth time. I guess that's for her benefit. She's not moving very well. Satsu hangs back, making sure she's okay.

It doesn't take Buffy long to pick up on the problem. She slows the pace to accommodate, but eventually, the inevitable happens. Willow stumbles. Satsu doesn't let her fall.

Buffy turns, weaves past the others and sweeps Will up. Leigh takes point and they set off again, slowly picking their way up the narrow dirt trail.

I focus on Willow's face when Buffy looks down to say, "Y'know, Will, I totally get the 'why.' Now that we know what to do, helping Dawn _is_ really important." Will grows anxious. But if I know her, that's purely defensive. "I even get why _now_. You're right. We may not get another break for a while." It surprises me she doesn't interrupt, especially when Buffy concludes, "But I still don't understand why you're here. The team could've handled this."

"I'm here because you need me," Willow replies with the speed and precision of a well rehearsed line.

If it wasn't for everything else, I'd be all over the subtext. It couldn't be clearer. Maybe she does get it, but she sure has a funny way of showing it.

Renee pokes me in the ribs with her elbow. She always does that when she's seen something funny. I guess the drama is amusing. But not really. Not if you care. I want to be annoyed until she points. That's not what's got her tickled at all. Satsu glances to her left toward a heavy canopy of vines and brush. They just walked right past the cave.

Before I can say anything, Willow grumbles, "Put me down, _please_." She turns around and marches back the way they came when Buffy obliges her request. What I see of her expression is priceless.

And I don't have to see Buffy to perceive the eye roll. Sight unseen, it's there.

Point, set, match…

Round one goes to the witch. Let's hope she can keep that up. If she doesn't, I've got the Devonshire coven standing by to bail us out.

Catching Buffy's arm as she passes, Willow whispers, "We'll wait for thirty seconds before we enter. That should give you plenty of time to get up to your neck in trouble."

Buffy shakes her head and pushes the vines aside. I can't make out what she grumbles, but I don't need to. Her intent is plain enough.

When one-by-one, five of the six squares fade almost to black, I start to wish we'd sprung the extra five-grand a unit. Thermal imaging would be more than a little handy right about now. That's nothing new. I wish the same thing every time this happens…which is about once or twice a week. But I get it. Cameras get broken all the time. That's painful enough without…

The team clusters at the entrance to give their eyes time to adjust. Finally, Buffy mutters, "'Kay, that's just gross," as everything gets just that much blacker. She's on the move.

I can just imagine what she saw.

Actually, I have to imagine. And my job's to keep an eye open—

Buffy springs sideways, turning as something pinkish rushes past. I'm doing my job oh-so-well.

Leigh's frame comes to life immediately after Buffy's. No clue what's happening from the blur, but the groan sounds promising. It's way too low to be one of the girls.

Ah.

Oh.

Eww. Ro's frame fills with a furry, dirty, naked backside. This guy could seriously use a wax. Or a boost up the evolutionary ladder. After mooning me, Ro…and the entire room, he goes stumbling.

This is a little too R-Rated for some of our younger viewers. I should clear Ops.

And they're both sort of, uh…yeah, they're done. They passed right through—

Rowena spins and attacks Leigh.

Distractions.

Keying my mic as the succubus lunges at Buffy, I snap, "Take her—!"

Glowing eyes pierce the darkness. Suddenly, I can see, but—

Renee takes a swipe at Buffy. This makes no sense. She's—

Buffy dodges the attack. I can't take my eyes off the screen to check.

It's not—

This is not—!

It's her. I don't—I've never seen her naked, but I—

As I reach out to touch…the view changes. Falling, it pans down the length of the beautiful, bare…

How'd I get so close? My fingertips touch plastic. Plastic?

I catch a glimpse of Leigh parrying a blow from Rowena's staff. But I don't care about that.

My view, it bounces. Why'd it—?

The screen—it's a screen. And it's black. Renee yells, "Xander, get out of the way!" How's she behind me? Someone grabs me. I spin. My face flushes hot when I see Renee. She's clothed, in my face and livid.

As she shoves me away, I glance over my shoulder at—it's a _display screen_. Clawed feet stand poised over whoever…

That's Buffy. Camera one is Buffy! What the hell?

In a voice thick with stress, Renee orders, "Satsu, make it quick! Leigh, quit playing and finish her. Everyone else, get on the demon now!"

The demon snarls, "Pitiful little girl…" snatching Buffy up by her throat "…you think yourself immune to me?" As its cold black eyes turn warm, brown and full of life, the words, "I know what's in your heart," send a chill down my spine.

Her eyes vanish. As I long to see them again, sickening swirls of gray and black whiz past, bouncing, spinning and crashing…

Blackness.

Heartbroken, I rush the…

Renee shouts, "Xander!" Snatching my arm, she spins me to face her. I—

She drags me away _again_, shoving me into my desk chair. I feel like an idiot. I know that's just a display. It's a flat piece of plastic membrane that holds in whatever miscellaneous goo LCD is. No clue, but I do know that the real flesh and blood Renee is here with me.

I turn to face the display. Camera one's dead, but there's jumble of movement in the remaining five frames. I piece together what I can see. Leigh and Rowena are still fighting each other furiously. I can't tell who's winning. Their frames weave back and forth. I catch glimpses of their faces. All I get is they both look really miffed.

Alana and Sandy are trading blows with Renee. Not _my_ Renee, the Renee in the cave. The Renee who's ruined more men's lives than Paris Hilton.

Sandy's moving sluggishly, like she might be hurt. Renee's bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in her side. The image makes me sick. But the truth's right here in front of me. The Renee who's here, she's real.

Doesn't matter. My grip on the arms of my chair tightens. I need to defend Renee even if she isn't Renee. She's hurt. I squeeze my eye shut. I can't look.

When Renee commands, "Sandy, get Buffy out of there," my eye snaps open. I focus on camera five. Sandy leans down. Buffy's unconscious and bleeding pretty badly from three gashes across her chest.

Before Sandy can touch her, Willow yells, "No!"

I jump.

Where the hell is Willow? I scan the screens trying to figure it out. That's it! Next time we do this, Will's getting a damned headset…and maybe a collar with a little bell.

On second thought, I hope we never do this again.

As Sandy backs away from Buffy, Willow shouts, "Satsu, get in there and help. Stay on the demon's six or this is over. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Satsu replies, stepping through the tattered canopy. The gap closes in a blink.

And me…I'm so useless. I have trouble dealing with the wings. Renee doesn't have wings. Or at least, last I saw she was wingless.

I force myself to look at the real Renee. She's still wingless, dummy. She's standing right there.

Willow's voice echoes through the cave. "Leigh, lead Rowena out here."

Sandy turns and rejoins the fight. Her kick is followed by a couple of things that look really painful. Alana brings her staff down against…that's not Renee. It's a demon.

Okay, that would probably smart a little. But it's the tip of Satsu's katana poking through the demon, _not_-Renee's right breast that really makes me cringe.

That's still not _Renee_. Renee's right over there and if I get up, she's going to put me on my ass.

The piercing scream is drowned out by a loud clap. I can only assume that was Willow. Either that or not a cloud in the sky and it's going to rain. I sure hope it was her.

Leigh stoops over Rowena. She's pretty badly beaten up. I think this is the first time I've ever seen her without a ball cap. Leigh glances up at Willow. What I expect to see and what I actually see don't mesh at all. The last time I saw Willow she looked positively sick. Now she crackles with power. Her brow is knit with concentration. She reassures Leigh, "She'll be fine. Get in there and help the others."

It's no surprise that Leigh does exactly what she's told. She dashes back inside, slipping past Buffy's limp form as it floats out of the mouth of the cave. But the fight's practically over. Satsu managed to dislodge her sword while Will was slipping Ro a mickey. Or whatever that was.

The demon's on the ground. Satsu swings. A sickening crunch brings the high-pitched wail to an end.

My mangled nerves thank her.

I sneak a glance at Renee. Her complexion's a little pasty, but otherwise she's okay. I like that shirt. She looks good in pastel tartan. The blue jeans are good. She's—

That's how she should be. Clothed, not naked. And no wings. The wings were just creepy.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I focus on camera four. Rowena's head is turned toward Buffy. Willow kneels beside her. The power she radiated moments before is gone. She looks really frail.

I feel like a Peeping Tom as I watch her. This is none of my business. There's tenderness in her touch. Will cares. And not just average _cares_…she really, really cares. Now I _really_ don't get it. Why does she want to leave so much if…?

And what in the hell was that all about? I thought that stupid succubus could only charm—? The way I see it—me going off the deep end—small potatoes compared to Buffy.

And what about that…? She wigs and gets dropped like a new recruit. Then she stays down. She doesn't get taken out like that. In fact, that's exactly the sort of thing that usually pisses her off.

I mean, I get why Will needed to stay out of it. That thing playing puppet master to her—? I don't even need to imagine how bad that'd be. I'd already called Ms. Harkness just in case.

And what's up with the warning Will gave Satsu?

Has everyone lost their minds?

To make matters that much better, Renee has this really annoying grin on her face. She knows.

Or I think she knows. Maybe she just suspects? I could live with suspicion, but if she knows…

I could transfer. Somewhere low key, strategically unimportant, off the map…like Siberia…

Do we even have a Siberian branch? I could start a Siberian branch.

Y'know what? Never mind. I'll just be over here if you need me. I know nothing. I see nothing. It's safer that way.


	5. Blue: Twenty Three Oh Nine

**Blue  
Twenty-Three-Oh-Nine**

* * *

As I sneak a peek at my watch, Dawn says, "But that's not it at all, Xander." Her frustration couldn't be plainer from her pacing and…

Eighteen hours and change. Days like this shouldn't happen.

I ignore the tension in her voice and lean my head back. It thumps into the tree I sit against.

Throbbing.

I'm way too tired for this. One carefully prepared hardboiled hellspawn later and Dawn's dragging herself out from under a pile of Nancy Archer's dirty clothes.

She changed at roughly sixteen-forty. I glance at my watch again, but I still can't make my sluggish brain do the math.

Whatever, that's been ages ago. You'd think eventually, I'd catch up.

She draws closer, stopping just short of me before she whines my name.

The guilt's helpful. I should say something, but I can't.

I can't help how I feel. And I sure can't change things.

I've had enough. I shut my eye. Maybe tomorrow.

"I didn't do this on purpose," she says.

That's nice. But does it really matter? This whole thing's been like some bad private joke. 'Thrice' what?

I really should've asked, but I think it's gone too far for that. Instead, I played along. Pretended I got it. It was so much easier that way. But if I had asked, I might know what to expect.

Dawn as a centaur?

Worse, Dawn topless! You'd think they might've gotten there first and spared me the trauma. But _no_…

And she's gonna change again some time tonight…into God knows what. Stupid me, I really should've asked. I just didn't think.

Actually, I didn't want them to think I was stupid.

"Xander, look at me," she pleads.

I can't.

And I can't exactly leave her alone. That'd be mean. So without help…

Moments slip by. The hurt builds. I really hate hurting her. Eventually, she mumbles, "Y'know what sucks most?"

I have a list. Odds are, she does too. "What?" I give her permission to share her list.

Through a despondent sigh, she says, "Not having permission."

Her answer's not at all what I expect. I don't get it. My eye snaps open. I look up. I'm pretty sure, judging from the expression on her face, that there's actual irony in what she said…or at least some brutal sarcasm. And not just in the 'shared thought, double-wordiness' thing that happened.

She smiles.

It's disturbing.

It's also totally wrong. I shouldn't find her attractive, but my inner geek just can't resist. It's like looking at something from a fantasy. And what's worse, I think she knows it.

As the smile fades, her expression turns harsh. "Think about it," she challenges, searching my face. "I was fourteen the day I was born. About the same age Buffy was when she was called. What bothers me most isn't that she ignores me." She folds her arms. I move my legs as she turns away, but she doesn't even come close to stepping on me. "Yeah, that's hard. But what really sucks is that no matter what I do, I can't seem to grow up. Buffy went through all the trauma and the drama that was Angel and no one batted an eye. With me…"

Moving away, toward the castle, she says, "I'm in college, Xander. And they're still treating me like…"

I look up, following the incline of her head. I'm not sure, but I can guess that my attention and hers rest on the same thing: a light three stories above us. I stare at the window, listening to her whisper, "I think it's 'cause I was given to her to protect. It's perception. The world around me changes. Everyone else sees me changing with it. But here, with the people that should matter most, I'll always be a child."

Her hooves shift, pawing irritably at the ground. It's surprising how graceful she is. After only a few hours, she's completely comfortable in her new skin. You'd think the learning curve would be steeper.

"Kenny actually treated me like an equal. Not like some sort of afterthought. Or worse, a burden," she mumbles, shaking her head. "My life's a joke." A bitter laugh slips out. "It's like I'm the brunt of one mystical punch line after another." She turns to face me. Giving me a piercing glare, she asks, "You really think I'd do this on purpose?"

She has a point.

I admit, "No, I guess you wouldn't."

I sure didn't.

Of course, it's not like I got my Supernaturally Transmitted Disease playing hide the salami with a coed. There was just a musty hole in the ground and some really wrathy, annoyingly sympathetic, indigenous ghosts.

But from the sound of things, neither did Dawn. Being able to relate…not exactly priceless.

Breaking eye contact, I stare past her over the battlements of our home. It's a pretty night. The sky's full of stars. There's a slight chill in the air.

Of course, the other side of that particularly shiny coin is that it's been over a month.

But it'll be at least another six before we live this down. Not only did Dawn make herself the source of the nearly perpetual punch line, she wore everyone's patience Gandhi thin.

Giles is still pissed about the expense report. I didn't even think. Neither did Buffy.

I was still trying to get over her suggesting that we rat Dawn in the first place. It was smart. Kind of cruel, but—

A spot on the breakfast show seemed eminent, so we made the call and Dawn became a field mouse…the size of a Saint Bernard. It sounded better than a rat. More manageable, less cursey…

And what you do with a monster mouse once you get her to the Scottish castle? That sounds like the start of another really awful joke, but that was our reality. We couldn't exactly change her back. Not without some clothes. And we do have catacombs. So we set her free under the castle.

Andrew was less than pleased when we said 'no' to his request to come 'adventure.' He'll live.

Otherwise it worked out. She seemed happy. I thought we'd dodged a bullet. And everything would've been just ducky if one little detail hadn't slipped our minds. We forgot about the Land Rovers we store down there. Mice like to chew.

On top of the astronomical spike in our grocery bill…Giles may forgive us. One day. Maybe even in this lifetime.

Yeah, the less she knows about that, the better. 'Able to chew all-terrain tires off the rim'—not exactly something—

The soft timbre of her voice almost gets lost in the sounds of the forest. "I'm not fourteen. I'm five, going on twenty."

I'm just grateful she finally said something. Better yet, I didn't miss it. My brain could churn like this for hours. That's a big part of my problem—the lack of sleep—on the nights that I do have time to squeeze in more than a couple of winks, I can't make the stupid thing shut up.

The light goes out. My gaze travels down the castle wall. I shift focus to her. She looks so serious. Earnest for someone to understand.

She knows I do. Dawn and I have a lot in common. Neither one of us is especially gifted, despite her numinous upbringing. We're both just sort of us. _Us,_ trying to compete for attention at Professor G's School for Gifted Girls.

The good kind of attention…not the 'how do you keep the giant girl from showing up on Google Earth' kind. Ms. Harkness was just thrilled by that request.

I may live it down.

"I really thought I could talk to Willow, but so much has changed," Dawn says.

Someday.

Curious what she thinks, I ask, "What's changed?" It's kind of a weak question, but—

I climb to my feet. If I don't move, the exhaustion's bound to catch up. Staying parallel to the castle, I stroll across the yard.

Matching pace, she asks, "What do you mean?"

"Willow," I reply. "You're right, there's something really different about her."

She mutters, "Oh."

She sounds distant and preoccupied. Both kinds of 'distant'…and not the good kind of preoccupied. When I turn to look, she isn't moving.

Her face tenses with pain. She folds over and clutches her stomach, screaming in agony as I rush to help her. I have no idea what to do when I get there. It's not like anyone gave me a handbook on coping with mystical transformations. The only thing I can think is to hold her. So I do. I lift her upright and put my arms around her.

It isn't quite as bad as a bear hug from Buffy, but Dawn earns a close second. She clings to me for dear life, begging me to make it stop. There's nothing I can do.

Trembling, she staggers to her knees. We both go down. A detail slipped my mind. It hurts. I sorta forgot that she outweighs me by several hundred pounds. I land on my ass with my legs pinned beneath her. It hurts like _hell_, but I hang on. I'm pretty much out of choices.

Clammy and wet, her hair sticks to the side of my face. I close my eye. Feeling's bad enough. I don't need to see. And hearing…

As the weight on my legs diminishes, she slumps forward, on top of me.

This really shouldn't feel good. Not after that. Not while my ears are still ringing.

She sits up, straddling me. Just guessing, but last I knew, all she had on was a tee-shirt.

And uh…

_Yeah_.

This really, really shouldn't feel this good.

"Xander?" Her voice is kinda gravely. From screaming, I guess. It makes my skin tingle.

When she shifts her weight, her crotch grinds against—

This feels _way_ too good. She rises awkwardly to her feet. The instant she breaks contact, I feel like begging.

There's a special Hell for people like me.

I keep my damned mouth shut. She doesn't move. It's the last thing I should do, but I open my eye. There's no mistaking the fact that I'm a whole lot happier than I ought to be.

My cheeks flush hot. I scramble backwards.

A flash of something shiny catches my attention. It's somewhere where shiny shouldn't be.

"What's the matter?" she asks. The question carries an innocence that makes me more—

Damning myself for not shutting my eye, or turning away, I stare at her legs. In the low light, it's hard to tell what's wrong. But something's wrong. Really wrong. Her skin tone's too dark and kinda…

Green maybe?

Green?

Uh…

"Xander, this'll probably freak you out," she says. "Call it T.M.I. or whatever helps you sleep, but I like sex."

My mouth falls open. I clamp it shut, hoping to spare my dignity.

Dignity, shmignity. It's pointless. Dignity never meant anything to me before. Why should it…?

Wow!

She's got great legs.

So why am I just now noticing?

I watch them. They should be alright, right?

Of course they are. She wears shorts around me. That works until…

Dammit! I can't win.

…she closes in.

Oh, for pity's sake! I helped raise her after—

My stomach knots up.

Special Hell!

Buffy's gonna kill me and send me to the special Hell! And I'll deserve it!

She whispers, "Kenny wasn't the first. Willow wanted to think that, so I let her." I can hear the smile in her voice. She lets out a mischievous giggle before she asks, "Why ruin a good thing?"

No reason I can think…

No!

Stupid!

Stupid!

Stupid!

This can't be Dawn. Not the Dawn I know. She'd at least try to cover herself. She did earlier with the—

She inches closer and I scramble, trying to spring to my feet. Only halfway there, I lose it and freeze, fixating on the tiny silver ring.

See? This is what I get! I knew I should've kept my stupid eye shut. I really shouldn't…

Was that thing there when she was the size of, uh, umm…

It could be the demon. I hope it's the demon. No. It's gotta be part of the…'cause if not—

Imagination just sucks! I should stop, but—

Let's see. She's been…I have to list just to keep it all straight: _Dawn_ Dawn, mouse Dawn, giant Dawn, centaur Dawn and whatever-this-is-now Dawn.

Who knows?

'Kay, so…that's five things. Was that there the whole time? If so, how?

I could ask Willow. Wouldn't that be fun?

I'll pass.

Imagination plus curiosity equals—in my case, with my luck—head injury. That's what her overly protective, extraordinarily strong, 'Bruce Lee' fast—maybe faster—sister is gonna do to me…if I'm lucky.

So, stupid me, I move on to the next thing, a small tattoo inside her left hip. Burning my brain may be the only solution after this.

That'll suck

But her tattoo's pretty. Two crescent moons, back-to-back, staggered and touching. The top of the right one almost reaches the center of the left one. Where they meet, they're pink. The color shifts in a smooth gradient to blue on either end.

That doesn't keep me from wanting to yell at her about how she's not old enough. But then…she's right. She's five, going on twenty. I can't argue. It's not like she needs parental consent.

I could rant at her about the Mark of Eyghon. In no way was that fun. Thing is, this is way more witchy, lots less demony. And Dawn's just not that epically stupid.

At least she's not epically stupid that way. We have Giles to set that particular bad example.

Damn it!

I keep my stupid mouth shut. Actually, I have to shut my stupid mouth. It kinda fell open when that other tiny detail caught my eye. The one that caused the big freeze, Xander-statue, I-can't-move sorta thing.

I debate whether I should look again. I think I'd rather claw my remaining eye out.

And yet, she just stands there letting me look. Modesty's a lost art. It has to be the demon. Green skin. She's a demon, right? I'm gonna say 'yes.' Green skin's probably—definitely a 'demon, not Dawn' thing.

My knee throbs, not to mention my wrist. Hunched over, half-standing isn't good. Worse, she's just inches from my face. And she smells…

My now shut mouth waters. Oh, that was truly helpful. Thanks bunches!

Uh…

She's still not moving. I focus on the neatly groomed patch of tight, dark curls. This is insane. My gaze travels down to the small silver ring.

I'm not gonna ask. The obvious question is, 'didn't that hurt?'

Obvious and really, really moronic.

I want to, but damn me!

And damn her, she starts to talk. "My roommate—god, she gives good—"

My fingers are in my ears. I flop backward onto my butt. And before I know it, I'm humming, 'la la la la la,' in my head like I'm twelve. Mature much? I switch to first thing that comes to mind: _I am the very model of a modern Major-General. _Searching my memory for the lyrics keeps my head from coming apart like a Roman candle. _I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral. I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical, from Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical…_

I run out of lyrics just in time to catch, "—I've ever spent." _Please_ be done!

A moment of silence later, I thank all the powers that be. She's done.

That does it! She's switching dorms if it's the last thing I do!

So lemme get this straight.

Buffy's _not _straight. Or at least she's less straight than…

Eh?

Actually, at least half the Alpha Team's, umm…

And uh…

_Yeah_…

To combat her family-imposed Peter Pan syndrome, Dawn's become, uh…

Uh-huh.

That's just the sweet, gooey frosting to conspiracy theories, branches of the military wanting us dead, psycho slayers and—damn it all to hell—Amy. I could've lived another couple of lifetimes without seeing her again and been just fine.

I _need_ a vacation.

My mouth's pasty and dry. I swallow. It doesn't help.

The damnedest thing is, she still hasn't moved. Not an inch. She's just staring at me.

Well, I'm not sure about the staring. I can't make myself look up.

She's staring. It tracks. Her hand's on her hip. The tee-shirt—

I wish she'd untie it. It might cover…

But really, she may as well take it off too. It's drenched and stuck in places—

That does it! I'm going to bed!

Alone!

I can wake up in a couple of hours to another disturbing phone call and forget any of this ever happened.

It was all just a bad dream.

Buffy will be straight and not crazy. Willow will be crazy—the good kind, not the world-endy kind—and not straight. We like her that way. And Dawn will be Dawn. Shy, naïve, sweet, little Dawn…

One great big, happy, severely dysfunctional, all-too-matriarchal family.

It'll be great!

Rolling onto my knees, I slap my hands against my thighs and stand up. This time I actually stand. I may reward myself with a cookie.

"Good night," I announce. My voice is just a little too chipper. I sound kinda stupid, but…

As I turn, she meets my gaze, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I can't move.

Her eyes glow an eerie yellow.

Her hair—why's…?

Writhing?

So cold.

I need—

A dark spot forms in the center of my eye, like I stared at a camera flash.

Shivery, frigorific non-fun.

My muscles burn.

I try to scream.

The dark spot grows. It keeps growing, wicking out like blood on a tissue. Everything turns foggy and gray.

She's not smiling anymore.

Panicked, she shrieks my name, sounding muddy and distant.

I struggle, desperate to answer.

She touches me. It feels wrong.

Distant.

Freezing.

More wailing joins the murky chorus.

Not my name.

Who's there?

Help me.

Hel…


	6. Gravity: 1g

**Summary:** How many of you have pined for someone only to be rejected?

Yup, that's a part of the human condition that plagues just about everyone from the most homely of geeks to the genetic freaks bearing the impossible combination of perfect facial symmetry coupled with the unique ability to survive on sashimi and celery.

Add an unhealthy dollop of confusion, a large pinch of hocus pocus, a dash of humor and a smidge of wanton violence. Blend the ingredients liberally and pour the resulting mixture into a stick-proof pan. Cook on high heat for a couple of weeks and you'll have the first draft.

From there things might get a bit tricky. We'll see.

**Rating:** FRM: Mature Audience: Parents Strongly Cautioned.

**Word Count: **28,916.

**Comma Guy:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** If you were to guess 'still none' based on my summary, you'd be right. Love's a… (See what I mean about the naughty words? It's just terrible.)

**Disclaimer:** I hate these dumb things. Why do we even bother? This is fan fiction, offered in an open forum, _freely_ available to anyone with an Internet connection. I just keep your interest piqued while you await legitimate offerings by the franchise owners like the next comic or that spiffy new movie.

**Dedication:**I would like to present this piece to my darling fiancé as a token of my affection. I wish I had something to offer her besides a tragedy. It's good prep though, 'cause if she ever makes it to the States and tries to live with me, the full meaning of the word will become perfectly clear.

Kidding aside, I don't think I've ever been paid a higher compliment than when Charlene read_ The Outsider_and asked me to marry her. It was purely tongue in cheek, but I was flattered. After all, it's not every day that a pretty girl asks you to marry her 'cause of something you wrote.

But one need only look around to understand how generous Char is. And she really is just marvelous fun to spend time with. Offering her another peek inside her favorite character's addled brain is the least I can do in return for the friendship she's shown me.**  
**

* * *

**Gravity  
1g**

* * *

A muffled scream rings outside the castle. It's Dawn. I shake my head.

I'm way too exhausted for this.

Still, I can't help wondering what the flavor of the minute is. Maybe she grew another head? That's exactly what we need: an extra mouth for an extra mouthy Dawn.

Eh. There was only one scream. If she had, there'd've been two.

That's too bad. With two heads she could argue with herself and leave me out of it.

I don't even get why this is happening. It's not like we didn't warn her. She just wouldn't believe us. You'd think she'd have it figured by now. Spotting and stopping the freakish and the fiendish is sort of what we do. Even if it does suck, we're not half bad at it.

Well, she did want attention.

It could be spots. Or maybe she turned blue?

Nah. We don't get that lucky. The Smurf jokes—though hopelessly tired—might be good for a laugh. Couldn't have that.

Maybe her two beady little eyes became one great big eye in the middle? I try to picture how indignant she'd be. The gag really isn't working for me, but that part is.

That's the real problem. No one knew. No one could predict how this'd turn out. I guess that's why she ignored us. She intentionally hopped in the Mixmaster of wacky, random, transmogrificationy fun because no one could give her a straight answer. All we do know…

No. Not 'we', 'me.' _I_ knew this'd be bad. I told her so. She wouldn't listen to _me_. Not like that's hard to predict. It's always bad. She never listens. And it always comes back to haunt me.

And what with the _thrice_ in the _wise_, this was bound to be a triple feature. Three times the fun. Her wearing a horse's ass was enough for me. I had to leave.

She deserves this.

So why am I still stressing? Dawn's convinced that she's so grown up she doesn't need our advice. She's all up for making her own choices. She should have to deal with the consequences.

Sounds great in theory, but again with the fallout…

Right on cue another scream echoes outside my window. Male voice and all, this one really isn't Dawn.

Oh, Xander, you didn't stay out there with Ms. Ed did you?

Dammit. It figures. I was comfy.

I leap out of bed as Dawn shrieks his name.

Yeah, _yeah,_ he did.

But why?

And why would Dawn want him to stay? I sure wouldn't want an audience if I'd done something that epically brain damaged.

Over by the window, Will waves a hand to catch my attention. I thought she was—

Weird.

She says, "We need to get down there." There's a no-nonsense sorta edge to her voice. She's worried too.

So, why am I tweaking? There's trouble. Trouble's normal. Ergo I should be fine.

And when did she get out of bed? I didn't even feel her move. My gut reaction is to make a break for the door. She's right. We need to be there. Like, now would be good. I jerk, fighting the impulse. She wants me to come with her. I stare at her, trying to make up my mind what to do.

Another cry echoes outside.

'Kay, so…not feeling any smarter.

That isn't Dawn, but it's definitely a girl—one of the girls. I need to—

Move!

Ignoring my instincts—yeah, that usually ends well. I trust Will, so I do.

"Hold onto me," she says.

She's hurt. Like really, really hurt. The only way I'm holding on is if it's to help.

While I'm stalling, she opens the window and takes my hands one at a time, resting them on her shoulders.

That worked out about as well as—

Putting her arms around my waist, she goes out the window.

Oh!

I grab hold.

Hell!

My arms snap tight.

No!

My calves smack the window ledge.

Holding on!

I turn my head to look down. My hair plasters to my face. We're only about fortyish feet up. No big, right?

It's a huge big! A massive, ginormous, big! We're seriously moving! Not just a little bit 'moving'…

I'm wigging.

It wouldn't be so bad if she'd just fly upright, but _no_…she's gotta play SuperWill. And with me hugging…hanging on to her neck, her hanging onto my waist.

Hanging's right…more like dangling. At least half of me is. She's totally getting leotards and a cape when I have time.

I tear my attention from the lawn whooshing underneath us. Of course, I have to shake my head to get my hair to behave. It only half works. And it's not like I can use my hands. Eventually, I see something besides blurry nothing. The corners of her mouth are curled just a smidge, like she's fighting a grin.

She's enjoying this!

Unbelievable!

I roll my eyes. Just you wait!

Lifting my legs, I wrap them around her. It's better, but a little weird. Way contactier than I'm comfortable with. Especially after yesterday.

Or was that today?

Clueless.

It's one of those days, in a string of fuzzy days that all run together into one long day since Will turned up. Most of them spent in my bed.

Not that there's anything to report. She was hurt and I helped. That was the only thing, except that other thing. But that other thing was nothing.

Or maybe it was everything.

It was nothing. At least nothing I have time for. Self analysis later. Now…

I crane my head around to look down. The ground's so much closer.

That does it! Next time I get dragged out a window, I'm gonna be the one doing the dragging!

When we get close enough, I let go, hit the grass and tumble to my feet. Will touches down just a little too gracefully next to me, but I barely notice her. I'm way more interested in Xander and Satsu.

Why aren't they moving?

More importantly, why do they look like they sprayed a can of that fake snow on before they dressed?

And y'know, it'd be just great if that was it. But _no_, this is the kind of nightmarish image that just keeps getting better the longer you look.

Xander has his back to me. Satsu stands a few feet away, sort of half-facing him. She's turned just enough that I can just see the side of her face. Her chiseled white expression says 'agony.' But that's not the only wigsome part. If that was it, the trauma—

Dawn's behind them with her back to them and us. Her arms are folded across her chest. Her hip's kinda cocked to the side. She hangs her head. It's that super-sulky pose she puts on when she's totally ticked off.

The green skin's not so much surprising. I knew there'd be something like that, but…I'm seeing way more of it than I want to. Way more than I've seen since she was in diapers.

And she couldn't care less! She acts like we're not even here. How could she possibly miss my pointless landing? I mean, I could see her missing Will's, what with the three points, but mine?

Umm, yeah…

Green skin. That would've been great when she was a giant. Add a few leaves and we could've gotten her a job.

That's not funny.

What's her malfunction anyway? A little modesty wouldn't kill her.

And what's wrong with Satsu and Xander? Did she do that to them? Did they see her and just—?

No. That doesn't make sense. Then why aren't they moving? Dawn's pose totally says 'tantrum brewing.' I'd be moving if I had a choice.

But she should've stomped away when we showed up. She should be off somewhere sulking by now.

She shifts her hips. Oh, jeez…_please_, don't move.

Or move, _yeah_, but not this way! Don't turn around! My head hurts enough without—

Y'know, I just hoped when it came, the cure might actually be a _cure_…minus the complication. After all that, we were kind of due.

Totally wishful thinking. Turns out, a curse really is a _curse_. Doesn't matter what I do.

And I may've just hit on the real problem. It's me. Not Dawn. She's just a bonus added for domestic flavor.

My misery wasn't quite complete. This is exactly what I was missing. Everyone's awake. It's only a matter of time before this yard fills up. And she's just waiting. The Witless Whelp of the West plans to lecture me on the finer points of who-knows-what in front of god-knows-who without a costume change.

Without a _costume._

Won't that be fun?

Why didn't I grab my bathrobe? It was right there. I could've brought it with and maybe—

With my jammies and Will's jammies, we don't have enough jammies to go around. There's no more jammies, no more nothing…

Will?

Why isn't she doing anything? I mean witch, right? Will, please put something on her to lessen the trauma—_my trauma_—when I kick her sorry, drama-loving butt all the way back to Berkley!

Somewhere in the jumble, I realize I actually mumbled, "Will." It's not the name I meant to say, just what slipped out. And by 'slipped out,' I mean 'just barely.' It didn't sound much like 'Will,' more like a croak.

"Yeah, Buff?" she replies. She sounds pretty bad too. I have to look. Tearing my eyes from something I totally want to unsee—

Why is that hard? Clueless, but it's painful and extremely icky.

I meet her gaze. She's already looking at me. Well, at least…

Uh, _no_…it's bad. We're both just kind of lost.

When the castle flood lights flip on, lighting the surreal scene, Dawn finally blows. "I can't believe you two!"

I shut her out and plead, "Will, do something?" I don't want to hear squat from Dawn. The others are coming. I mean, lights, right? Just dress her. It's all I ask.

And If I actually asked, it might be helpful. "Do something, please?" I mumble.

Oh, yeah…that should make my meaning much clearer. Of course, it doesn't. She just stares at me.

I snap and turn on Dawn. She still has her back to me. I stomp across the lawn, fuming, "What the hell is wrong with you?" as I weave between Xander and Satsu. They're totally—

Why?

Dawn's hair, it's green and wiggly, like worms or sna—

My foot snags. I smack the ground face first, barely managing to catch myself. Even that sucks. It doesn't feel—

Maybe I'm just—

Fog rolls in. At least I think its fog…really, really quick fog. It clouds my vision. I can't even see my hands.

Well, at least that means—

It means something hit me! I didn't even get a chance to register how screwed I was and…

Nothing. There's no pain, no…

It's like moving a brick, but I slide my hand sideways. The grass isn't wet. Really, really quick, totally dry fog.

What the hell?

And really heavy limbs. I flounder, trying to get up. My arms and legs feel like they're made of lead, but I make it to my knees.

Will yells, "Buffy, don't!"

I freeze.

Dawn giggles. "Thanks, Will." Moving closer, she fumes, "Can't you see?" This must be really amusing 'cause it makes her laugh even harder. I'm personally failing to see the funny.

I'm failing to see anything at all. One huge inky…completely unnatural nothing. That's what I see.

Unfortunately I can hear just fine. Dawn's never lacked the gift of gab. And she's an absolute master of complaint.

"No, of course you can't. But then, even when you aren't blind, you still don't see. You're so wrapped up in your own bullshit that you totally miss the obvious."

This is weird as hell. Is she laughing or crying?

Or both?

Huh?

Will shouts, "Dawn, no!"

A crunching sound right next to me gives Dawn away. In spite of the weight, I sweep my leg and plant her right on her bare rump. I want to kill her, but—

"What do—?" I stammer.

Before I finish, Will butts in, "She's a gorgon." Her tone's flat. Totally deadpan. Like that answer is somehow supposed to make everything better.

What the hell is she talking about? "A gor-what?" Mid-stammer it hits me. My muscles tense. "It was you!" I shout. My face turns hot. "Let! Me! Go!" Unbelievable! She attacked me!

Ever helpful, she prompts, "Medusa."

I still wanna—

Oh!

_Oh! _

Oh, shit! Xander and Satsu are—

Rustling next to me makes me flinch. Oh Hell!

The weight lifts as I scramble away. "And you didn't know this would happen? How could you _not_ know?" I yell.

Will cuts me off. "How could I know? You expect me to know everything. There're some things I just can't know." She bites the last few words off and makes this grumpy sound, kind of a groan, but almost a growl.

I want to throw something. Of course, being able to see would make aiming and hitting so much easier. And there's the tiny issue of finding something _to throw_. Being blind just ticks me off. It reminds me of those stupid tests.

I point out the obvious. "But Will, she's a monster!"

She finally loses her cool. "And what exactly do you think a giantess is…or a kentauride? She's been a monster!" But she can't just lose it. She has to make me feel dumb too.

"A what?"

"A female centaur," she replies.

Ah. The girls have a special name? Good to know. Shame, I've forgotten it already. Why couldn't she just say 'centaur'? And since when are centaurs monsters? I mean, _pretty_…monsters aren't pretty, are they?

She explains, "Look, Buffy, the curse of the Thricewise is a penance malediction. There's no way of knowing what will happen because the cursee creates the effect. The curser and the curse itself have nothing to do with it. It's totally unpredictable. I told you that."

I shout, "No you didn't!"

She doesn't say a word.

Almost as an afterthought and completely ignoring me, she adds, "Remember what happened to me with Kennedy?" Oh, goody, more dispassionate bluntness.

I don't give the afterthought a second thought. My brain's had enough. It and my stomach are off training for the next Olympics.

Uh…

Goddammit! "You did this?" I snap in Dawn's general direction.

No answer.

No nothing, in fact. No breathing. No movement. No Dawn. She bailed.

The fog thins. Will's sitting a few feet from me between Satsu and Xander. I meet her gaze through the thick black murk and fume, "Dammit! Why didn't you let me do something, or—here's a crazy idea—maybe do something yourself?"

Her face draws into a harsh scowl.

Uh-boy.

Nice. _Really_ nice.

And the fog _really_ isn't fog. It falls to the ground like soot, covering us. I have no clue what it is. I shake it off my arms and instantly find sympathy for Pigpen. Hell with it. I shake the whole me and hold my breath waiting for the cloud to dissipate. When I meet her eyes again, nothing's changed.

Well, something has changed. Somehow, she's totally clean. Me, I'm still a wreck.

Of course, she makes me wait. And with the waiting comes an examination. She finally answers, "I did." Her voice is chilling—quiet, almost passive, but angry—angry in ways screaming just can't convey. And her answer is a little less than satisfying.

I open my mouth, not even sure what to say, but she gets there first. "I can't fix everything for you. You may think I can, but I can't. I can't do it all."

We're surrounded by slayers. The entire team's out here with us and a bunch of the trainees. They stand behind Will at the edge of the sooty mess. I look around, taking in all of their faces. Each one holds a question, but none of them speak. Instead, they listen to her. "What did you want me to do, Buffy? Gorgons are highly resistant to magic. If I had done something, there's no telling what my something would've done. It would've been fun in that 'flopped spell, unpredictable consequence, everything goes flooey' kind of way."

She takes a deep breath. Some of her anger fades. It doesn't matter. I still feel like I'm five. "I'm sorry you think I failed you, but I got the impression you didn't want that, so I did what I could. I stopped anyone else from ending up like them," she says, punctuating with a subtle gesture to indicate the two statues on either side of her.

I need to say something, but I've still got nothing. And that's probably a good thing. I thought nothing was the problem. But nothing was actually the best answer. That was a stalemate.

I should take a clue.

While I'm struggling with what not to say, Will stands up and offers me a hand. I accept, though touching her is the last thing I want. The glare she's giving me is pretty hard to ignore, but I manage. As she tugs me to my feet, I play avoidy and guilty all at once by glancing at Xander. Who says I can't multitask?

Go figure, it turns around to bite my ass. There's an unmistakable bulge in his jeans, just level with my field of vision. I can't miss it. No matter how much I want to.

My mouth falls open. I clamp it shut and let go, landing on my butt.

Another cloud billows up. I blink, praying that this—all of this—is just some huge mistake. I'm seeing things, right?

Wrong.

As the dust settles, cementing the nightmare in my mind, I expect to hear laughter. I want it so much, it's almost there.


	7. Gravity: 0g

**Gravity  
0g**

* * *

Lying down in bed, all comfy again… This should feel good.

And it might if only my stupid head would shut up.

No such luck.

I turn onto my side. Propping the worthless, malcontent part in my hand, I look at Will's back. Some things never change. She's glued to my computer. It's been either that or the usual pile of musty old books for hours now. I don't see how she does it, but somehow, she always manages.

At least one of us is.

She still insists it beats wallowing, but I'm not so much sold. I think I'm due a good wallow. My only problem is an over-abundance of things wallow-worthy. I may need to budget my time. That is if I can ever concentrate well enough to…

My attention drifts to the picture above my desk. Refusing to blink, I stare at it until it blurs.

Why can't things be that simple again? Not that they were _all that_ simple, but none of us were embarrassing effigies of our former selves, injured or missing. And Dawn…she was still away at college. Normal-sized, not blown out of proportions. There were no hooves, manes, scales or any other assorted animal parts. She was just Dawn.

Now she's all monstery and missing.

Worse, she's gonna change back into plain old Dawn in a few hours. If she's anywhere a gorgon might find homey, odds are it'll be somewhere that Dawn, the nearly naked girl, won't. We have to find her and the standard locator spells aren't working. Will's already tried.

Aside from the obvious wig, I'm not sure how to feel about any of this. Best guess, my head may explode. But that might actually be preferable to—

Shitty.

'Shitty' is the first thing that comes to mind. I feel shitty. But somehow, 'shitty' fails to sound shitty enough.

Even if I never say a word, it doesn't matter. I need to be more careful what I wish. Rationally, I get that this isn't my fault.

But 'rational' doesn't even enter into it. Barring everything else that's happened I'd still blame myself because I didn't want her here.

Take into account the fact that she probably thinks I attacked her…

Probably because _I did_ and I—

I—

I don't know. Your average, run-of-the-mill guilty conscience would be a huge step up from where I am now.

Mom would be so proud. I'm such a good sister. But it's not like—

There's _no_ question. I love Dawn. I _do_. I miss her when she's not around. But missing her is so much easier…and better for both of us. Because when she's here, she's just—

I want to strangle her. She makes me crazy!

And I don't know what to do about it. She's _so_ clueless. She wants to be treated like an adult. Yet, for some unknown, utterly inexplicable reason, she believes that whining like a five-year-old is how you earn the privilege.

It makes no sense.

Protecting her is still way more than a sick obsession for me. I just need to know she's somewhere safe. Somewhere away from all of this crap…_and me_.

We pull that off and I'll be fine.

I let go of the breath I've been holding and blink. The 'letting go' makes this sound that surprises me. It's somewhere between a sigh and a growl. Will even wonders what my malfunction is. I plaster on a sheepish grin to cover when she glances over her shoulder.

Whoops!

Thankfully, she just returns to her research, no questions asked. That's good because I'm not sure what I would've said.

I scrunch my eyes closed and rub them.

College was good for Dawn. She should go back. One of us deserves a chance to make something of their life. Something that doesn't carry with it a serious shot at a spot on Unsolved Mysteries.

I'm staring at my hands again. Go figure. As I return my attention to the focal point of my angst: our all-too-familiar picture—something else catches my eye. The second I see my helmet I feel this overwhelming need to motor. 'Where to' doesn't even matter. Anywhere but here would do. Maybe if I could just get away for a few, I could—

I can't think straight with her around.

That is, when I even have the headspace to think. The Sleeping Beauty act's getting more than a little old.

I can't.

Even if I could leave, I can't leave like this. I'm way too upset. I'd just do something stupid. Probably several somethings. Those somethings would feel really good in the moment, but—

I can wait, I guess. I mean, I guess I have to wait. Besides, venting on a bunch of demons, or monsters, or whatever they are, can be just as good.

I shake my head. When get back to my study, Xander's smiling face greets me. I shut my eyes and bear down. How could I have forgotten about him? I've been looking at that picture for—

Apparently, there's no cure. Once 'immortalized,' you're stuck. Or so the legend says.

I want to come up with something snide about the state of his 'immortalization,' but I just can't. 'Once a rock, always a rock' hardly seems like something you'd joke about.

It'll be okay. Will's not convinced, or at least she's not willing to accept. And I'm right there with her. There's no way that's an option. I'm not gonna settle.

We need a miracle.

Her chair squeaks. I open my eyes as she grabs another handful of books, setting them aside.

I just wish she'd—

Umm…

I don't know. I just, I—

She locates the books she wants and sits down.

It sucks, but I—

I wish she'd take this somewhere else. She's making me—

Is that really it? Do I _really_ want her to go?

The pages of her book rustle.

Maybe.

Things might've been—

_No._

That's not _even_ remotely sensey.

Or fair.

None of this is her fault. She sure didn't ask for Amy to show up. Actually, Will kept the Amy trauma to a minimum. Unless you count what happened to her. Then there was lots of trauma. I wish she hadn't. Her being hurt is just—

It's so much easier when it's me. With me, it's expected. It comes with the territory. When it's her, I always feel like she's hurt because of me. And that's just awful.

Really, she did the same thing with Dawn. The 'damage control,' not the 'getting hurt.' Will stopped it. She kept anyone else from becoming a rest stop for transient pigeons. Things could've turned out so much worse. If she hadn't been here, Slayer Central might've turned into a Grecian garden before anyone clued.

It's just—

Her being here is seriously setting me off. That's the problem. I need her here. But I don't want her here because—

Umm…

Because with her around, I'm not sure of anything. It's all too complicated.

This picture's all I've had for so long. It figures. Now I've got the real thing and she's totally freaking me out.

I draw in a deep breath. She's so pretty. That smile's just—

'Once you fall for Willow…'

I sigh.

What an admission. When I said that, I never imagined counting myself among the fallen.

Well, I did, but not in that context. It's no mystery I've always had a thing for her. I'd have to be pretty clueless to not see that. But I didn't get what kind of a thing. I thought I just missed her. That's all.

I did.

But that's not all.

And I needed a stupid demon to point that out to me. What is it with me and demons? First it's Spike. I'm not sure how I feel, but he's got me all figured out. Next it's a succubus showing me more of Will than—

I'm clueless what to do about it. There's just no part of 'in love with your best friend' that ever ends well.

_Jeez._ Am I _really_ in love?

I massage my eyelids with the tips of my fingers, pressing to make myself focus. I have no idea. I'm totally attached in an 'I can't imagine being without her again' sort of way. As much as I want her to leave, the idea scares me. I'm not sure which is worse, having her here or not. I'm sort of damned if I do—

It always goes that way with me. I like my swords double-edged.

Everything about this is like that. There's nothing new. I've always loved her. The question is, 'how do I love her?' And what does that mean?

Could I see myself naked and, umm…?

I mean, _us_ naked? Like us _together,_ naked, doing what—?

She clears her throat and turns the page of her book. Thank God she's not looking because my face instantly flushes. I hide it with my hands.

Alright, that was just too weird. I _really_ don't need to go there, _so_…

I guess we'll call that 'good' and drop it.

_But—_

I can't. I know I'm not crazy. Or I hope I'm not _that_ crazy.

This has been going on for years. And it's not just me. I didn't start it. In fact, I would've never even considered it if she hadn't gone there first.

There were times I caught her looking that I'd swear—

It freaked me out. I mean, we were in high school when that first happened. And _yeah_, we were so close that—

Boys are just mean.

That was such bullshit. It only happened once, but that was enough. I lost it. I wanted to kill them.

What's worse…I had nothing. In a way they were right. They were totally wrong, but right. I did love her. That's why it pissed me off so much.

So what if we held hands?

And since when is 'confident' synonymous with 'dyke'? Stupid boys. Just because they couldn't handle—

That _so_ doesn't matter. I need to keep it together. What matters is _now_.

This is normally a matter of attraction. Asking if I'm attracted is just stupid, not to mention pointless. I've _been_ attracted and I'm _still_ attracted. I was attracted back then when the last thing she felt was attractive.

It's not like I really even had a chance to think. This isn't something that'd just occur to me, especially when one of us was with someone. And it was always one or the other of us. The vacancy would open and get filled without any thought to—

It was just sort of expected. She was totally _not_ an option. She's my best friend. How could I even consider…?

When it did finally come up, I made a total fool of myself. I acted like such an idiot. It was so embarrassing. She told me about Tara and I just lost it. I told myself I was just shocked. It was a bombshell. I reacted badly. But if I'm honest, I flipped out because her admission meant that things—

It seriously complicated things between us. Or at least it did for me. Something that had been completely off limits was suddenly possible. I _could_ consider it. There were times when I even did. The walls in Mom's house were really thin.

But she was with Tara and there was no way. I'd never. They were in love. Like, really in love. Standing in the way of that—

I felt so guilty even being able to hear them. I had to bail.

I'm making this sound like some sort of federal case. It really wasn't. It wasn't even a big deal. When they were there _and_…I wasn't. I found other places to be. I put that out of my mind. She wasn't available.

And after…

After that, we both—

I was _jealous_.

_Me!_

The realization…or admission—more like an admission—almost makes me laugh. I choke it down. That's just bad. Talk about skipping ahead.

And y'know, that's _so_ not what I wanted. I just couldn't believe that of all people, I ended up with Spike. Our world was falling apart. Not just the usual, things were totally _falling apart_. It wasn't a test. No joke. No games. And he was the only one who cared enough to stick around.

I was grateful for that. For him. For the comfort. Comfort was all I really needed.

I just couldn't figure out why she sided with them. Why she stayed with Kennedy. It's not like she said much. She thought I was tired.

_Duh._

Yeah, I was in pretty bad shape. We all were. I still sorta am.

And she thought I might not be thinking straight. None of them did. They thought I'd lost it.

But I think with her what it came down to was loss. We had all lost so much. But Will…she'd lost more than—

More than anyone ever should. More than any of us had before Xander.

And it was all because of me.

It's no wonder.

She couldn't make that kind of choice again. The _who_ didn't so much matter. Just the potential was enough.

That's something I could never ask. And I really couldn't blame her either. I just had to accept. She either wanted to be with me or she wanted to be with someone she barely knew.

She made her choice.

And I got over it.

Or I got over it as much as I could. It still hurts, but the brutal truth is that all of the smart rats had already abandoned ship. I was doomed along with anyone that chose to stay. The fact that anyone did—

The fact that she stayed and did exactly what I asked her to do…it shows undoubtedly how she feels. Nothing else matters.

I just wish it had been her holding me. That's all I really wanted. The other stuff…?

I'm not sure what I want. All I'm really sure of is that I want it to be her holding me next time things get that bad. Like it used to be. Things would fall apart and it'd be us.

Just us.

I open my eyes and look up. Her smile—that same ol', familiar happy face—it just seems wrong now.

I was pretty sure I'd never see her again after that. Yet here she is.

I sigh, feeling like a total amateur for not holding this one in.

It's strange. I used to know exactly what 'right'was. There wasn't any question. Now questions are all I have. And I don't even know how to begin to get that back. It's like I've lost a part of myself. The part of me that was sure.

I'm not sure of anything now.

Well, I'm sure that I'm miserable. That's about it.

But maybe that is _it_. She was part of that. Not the misery, the other. I knew because we were together we could figure it out. We'd make it work. It'd be okay.

Back then, I wouldn't have given this a moment's thought. Not without knowing. And that's the problem. I don't know. She won't tell me. All I know is that things between Will and Kenn aren't the same. Something happened.

And it was something really bad.

It's not like Will to make flippant comments about death. But she did. And then she clammed up. I laughed it off to make it easier on her.

Later, when I asked…

I guess they're still together, but not really _together_, together. She said something about needing a break. But it was like she was blowing me off.

Anyway, there's a lot more to that story. Like that's anything new. That's how everything is with Will now. Partial, incomplete…

It's hard to believe that I used to know her better than anyone else. Now I don't know her at all.

I want to.

I'd say that pretty much counts as curious. Yeah…_curious_ is a good word.

And it's not because of sex. I mean, not really. I'm totally curious about that…and completely clueless, with a side of absolutely terrified by the idea. Even if it wasn't Will, I'd still be wigged. Add her and the wig pretty much goes off the charts.

All I really want to do is kiss her. Everything else is just too—

That's it. Is that so wrong?

_Probably._

I'm absolutely certain of one thing, I do love her. There's no question. Being able to express that…I sort of know how it'd be.

That was such a long time ago. And things were so awful after.

Maybe this wouldn't be awful. It's not like Will's gonna lose her soul over me.

That doesn't mean it wouldn't be awful.

It could still be awful.

Yeah, it'd probably be awful. We are talking about me. I can pretty much make anything awful. It's a gift.

I must be losing my mind. All any of this really means is that I have something else to stress about. Like I need another something. I have plenty of other somethings.

Worse, I wonder if I'm feeling what I'm feeling because I really feel that way, or if it's just because I'm lonely. Am I'm grabbing hold of the first big thing...someone I have really strong feelings for?

Gravity.

I'm falling. I hang on.

If that's all this is, then I'm stupid. But not just…I'm the world's biggest idiot for even entertaining the idea.

I love her. But there's a difference. Even if I really am _in_ love with her—and right now, I'm not sure—but if I get sure, I could lose her, so I can't—

Yeah.

That made lots of sense.

Really it did, in an overly complex, 'completely butchered by my worthless brain' sort of way.

I need to just get over it and move on. It's stupid to even consider. Unrequited love can be oodles of fun, right?

Who am I kidding?

I doubt she's ever seen any potential in us. And seriously, if I'm smart, that's where I should be.

Smart?

Well, there's always a first.

At the very least, I've had enough abject humiliation for one night.

Maybe tomorrow. Stupid demon.

My shoulders ache. I've been ignoring them, but they're way past the ignoring. I roll onto my back, turning to face my desk, the picture and the source of my bonus angst.

As bonuses go, it's almost as good as moving granite-Xander. Satsu wasn't terrible, but Xander—the guy weighs a ton. Sort of literally, now. Even with help, I thought I might end up in traction when we loaded him onto the truck. At least they're not out in plain view anymore. Maybe it'll limit the scandal, and after the damage control, this will all just blow over.

Uh, _yeah_…I still live with over two-hundred teenage girls. I'll be amazed if he doesn't end up stripped and standing in the main hall by morning.

And there are just certain pranks that should carry a death sentence.

I'm so horrible. I really, really wanted to _accidentally_ snap part of him off. It's not like it was a big part or anything. He'd barely miss it.

A smirk pulls at the corners of my mouth. And it'd totally limit my trauma. But Will gave me this disapproving glare. I swear there are times I think she's channeling Mom.

Yeah. That's not even funny. She's right. If we ever get him back, he'd bleed to death.

_If._

That 'if' lingers forever. I just feel numb.

Finally, about the time I'm getting restless, Will glances over her shoulder and says, "I think I may've found something."

Grateful for the distraction, I roll of bed and lean over her to look. I love the way she smells. I missed this smell. Uh, _yeah_…'kay, so…stopping now…

I'm hopeless.

She gives me a look. Before I make a complete ass of myself, I focus on the passage she's pointing at. 'The immortal gorgon is invulnerable…' blah, blah, blah '…aegis may be derived from her lament.'

That last part's what she actually wants me to read, but I don't see the big. 'Course it might help if I understood what 'aegis' is. Sounds like a spa treatment. I thought people were all gross back then. Through another sigh, I say, "So?" thinking better of it a second too late.

Yeah, really smooth. You've already pissed her off once tonight. Keep going and maybe you'll—

"Yeah, I know it's not much," she admits.

I bite my lip to stifle another sigh. This one's all about relief. I'm being way hypersensitive. It's not like me.

Actually, it's pretty much the opposite of me. I guess that's another thing for the pile.

I really need to go for a ride and get my head straight. This is just getting—

She prompts me to pay attention by asking, "You do get how this works, right?"

I confess, "Not really. I mean, not so much." I'm probably missing something important. Scratch that 'probably,' make mine a 'definitely' with a side of 'completely clueless.'

She turns to face me and I move away, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Being close to her really isn't helping.

When I'm settled, I make eye contact and she goes on. "There's no cure. That's what they say. But people are always inclined to say something doesn't exist if it seems impossible."

I nod. She's totally right. The impossible typically is. Or at least, it's damned painful and potentially life-endy—normally both.

"I think it's a hint. Maybe not from someone who absolutely knew, but more like an educated guess. There are some universal truths—things that work pretty much across the board. One of them is the use of the heart to cure poison. We've seen that one enough times."

I think I see where she's going. Oh, that'd suck!

She smiles. I glance at the picture. It's that same smile, an actual happy smile. There's nothing false about it. She looks so drained, but it doesn't matter. Her smile lights up the room. How I feel doesn't matter much either. I have to smile too because she has hope.

"Tears, Buffy," she says through that beautiful smile. "Getting your hands on gorgon tears would be impossible. But we have an advantage."

"Finding her is still an issue," I point out.

She stands and I feel this overwhelming need to protect her again. It's obvious she's not moving well. And I get the feeling we're about to do something monumentally stupid. Like that's anything new. Moving toward the door, she says, "I have an idea where to look, but I need to get started. Even with help, this is gonna take a while."

No matter how much I want to, I can't protect her. All I can do is help. I stand and follow her out.


	8. Gravity: 5g

**Gravity  
5g**

* * *

When Will tried to describe this, I just knew it'd be truly bizarre. But 'bizarre' doesn't begin to cover it. My imagination didn't do it justice.

Actually, I think it's one of the most messed up things she's ever done to me. And because of her I look like tomato every time I hear 'Wind Beneath My Wings.' Dorkiest pop song ever. Totally Pavlovian response. Doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with, I'm instantly mortified.

I close my eyes. Not that it helps. Not that I _expect_ it to help. I still see.

But 'see' isn't right. What this is isn't exactly like seeing. I want it to be seeing, so I try to make it like seeing. But it's more like sensing, or…

I have no clue. Nothing really looks right. There are no shadows. The textures are all wrong. It's just _not_.

The blindfold itches. It's annoying. I get the 'why,' but it'd be nice if it wasn't itchy. Skipping the whole 'magical superglue' thing would've been even better. I get the point, but I can't help thinking that I'm gonna end up looking like Whoopi Goldberg when she takes it off.

And that's just one tiny thing, an _insignificant_ thing in a heap of other things that are way more disturbing. Like, it wouldn't be so bad if it was me actually doing the seeing.

I'm not.

It's totally not me. Everything I see is from Will's perspective.

Total mind job, I'm part of the view. And I actually even sort of look like me. So much for creative license.

The funny…the girls are way more wigged than I am. Leigh's looking around, like it might change something. And Ro's doing something that looks sort of like a sobriety test. I nonchalantly twirl the scythe as I stifle a giggle. Kinda cool. All those years of pretending are paying major dividends. I look completely at ease.

The other two probably had the right idea. They're behind us, so it's hard to say what's up with them. I'm sure they're having fun. I know I am.

Will said this works like sonar. She's sharing what she 'sees' with us. There's no way anyone not witchy could do this, but she can share. It'd be nice if we could, but we can't, so she's our eyes. So long as we all stick together, we should be okay.

I mean, I guess we'll be okay. I hope we will.

Strange how stuff works.

One insignificant detail sets me at ease. The bookshelves that line walls are full of books.

Now if it were just me dealing with a bunch of shapes, the books would look like blocks. They don't. Each one has something written on its spine. That's Willow. She knows exactly what's here. She should. She chose it…along with pretty much everything else researchy we have.

We'll be fine.

I'll do what I always do. Take it as it comes and do the best I can. There's really no sense wigging over something I can't change.

It doesn't matter that there are tons of problems besides the obvious. Minor details, like I know if I look over my shoulder what I see won't change. Where there's something blocking Will, the image fades. She can't see what's on the other side, so we can't. If we stay huddled like this, anything moving at us from the outside of our circle isn't gonna show up. We're still gonna have to rely on sensing rather than seeing…or sorta seeing. There may be traces of movement, but—

This beats any of the _absent_ alternatives. We're getting Dawn back. I'd go for it blind and alone if I had to.

I don't. This is better. End of story.

A strange glow comes from in front of the bookcase near Ro and Leigh. They step back. It's just weird, kinda pretty, but _weird_. I guess that's the portal. I mean, what else could it be? Maybe this is how portals look to Will? The colors are dazzling, all of them. It looks like rainbow concentrate. And here I thought portals just looked like glowing white blobs. In the center of the strange, pretty light is nothing. It looks like a swirling void. Like the sorta thing you get sucked into and squished.

Cheery.

As usual, the waiting was mind numbingly horrible. Drooling was almost an issue. Now here we are and I'm not sure we're ready. But I'm pretty sure that even another hour of trying to see things through someone else's magical bat-eyes wouldn't help. That and Will made it plain that just doing this was going to be hard on her. She can only keep it up for so long. Once she's done, we're totally blind, so…

We may as well get moving. What's the worst that can happen?

We'll be _fine_.

Motioning for the others to follow, I walk over to portal and say, "Let's go." Navigating is gonna take some getting used to, but I pull it off without running into anyone…or tripping over my own feet.

Yup, things are just peachy.

I enter the portal and everything goes black. My grip tightens on the scythe. After the standard whooshy, crushing badness, I come out shaken and shaking on the other side. Blind is bad enough, but blind and alone in a place that totally sets me off?

And I expected…?

I expected to be able to breathe. The air's thick and smells like ammonia.

And it's hot. Not just a little hot, like 'summertime in Riverside' hot. More like 'next to an active volcano' hot. The kind of heat that closes in, getting worse, oppressive and nasty.

Wigging might actually be the right answer. But that's not gonna happen. The others are right behind me. And we have a job to do.

I step aside to give them room. Good thing there's nothing to trip over 'cause that'd just be stylish, even for me.

It doesn't take Will long to join me…and with her, my eyes. This place doesn't look nearly as bad as it smells. Or at least, my sense of pattern recognition makes it look sort of normal. There are pieces of broken marble columns littering the ground. And plants, lots and lots of plants. It's an overgrown tropical garden in the center of some ruins. Greek stuff. Like a little slice of the Acropolis meets reruns of Gilligan's Island.

And here we are, just me and the Professor. I had such a thing for him…

When I was five.

I think he reminded me of Dad. Little girls and their fathers, it's so cliché…and kind of embarrassing.

Yeah…and that turned out well.

But really, Will's more like Mary Ann, or maybe a mix of the two, the answer person, problem solver and the naïve, small town girl. That's how she was when we met. Post Buffy, she's more like a Mary Ann who miraculously survived being left to fend on the streets of Beirut.

Destroying the people I love—just a little hobby of mine.

Whatever…

I really need to shelve the guilt and get my head in the game.

The others appear one at a time. As Will lifts into the air, the view gets even stranger…if that's possible. She holds position directly overhead. It's good, though. We'll have to adjust a little, but it clears up most of the line-of-sight issues.

When the team's all with me, I whisper, "Stay close." I don't need to tell them much. If they weren't with the program, they wouldn't be with me.

We'll be fine.

There's a tower up ahead. It's not very big, but it's the only thing standing, so I guess that's our goal. It's as good a goal as any. The view's still pretty crappy, even with Will overhead. There's lots of thick cover between here and there. I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not. But just standing around is pretty much pointless.

As I pick past the overgrown plants and broken bits of former building, cautiously moving toward the little tower, I notice something that's pretty cool. We're in a huge cavern. Light or dark shouldn't really matter, but it looks like it's broad daylight in here. The light source according to Willow-vision is a bunch of jagged rock formations on the ceiling. I'm not sure how she gets that, or why I see it, but they shimmer like crazy.

I want to think it's pretty, but that's usually a mistake. The second I start enjoying the view, things turn ugly. It's a standard.

The ferns ahead of us rustle. I freeze.

I just had to go there.

Thing is, I didn't see anything else move, just the plants.

I clutch the scythe with both hands, wringing it in my grip. It's funny. I have to think about pretty much everything else except this. Out of all the stuff in my life, there are only a handful of things I just do. They come naturally, sort of like breathing. Not that that's getting any easier.

But I think if I could just do this, I'd be fine.

I'm not. There's tons of other stuff for me to screw up.

And that might be one of the dumber—

A blinding, fiery light erupts all around me. I dive to escape, but never hit the ground. Something grabs hold, jerking me up by my shoulders.

Darkness closes in. Panicked screams ring out as I sail through the air.

I reach, trying to find something to hold onto. My hand catches a branch, but it's ripped away.

Something's not right. There should be pressure and noise. There's no other noise, just the screaming. Where's the big boom…and the heat? I saw fire.

My skin burns, but it's not hot. There's no heat. No more than there was. Something stung me.

Several somethings stung me a lot! I swing at whatever, hitting myself instead.

No clue. It makes no sense.

«Buffy, stop!»

The scythe hits something, not me, and there's a whimper.

Will?

«Stop!»

I go limp. Her arms are around me. Or I think—

Yeah, she's holding me so tight I thought—

It figures. This is _exactly_ what I wanted. And I'm losing it.

I put my arms around her waist. She winces when I touch her lower back.

I hit her. I can't believe I—

«I'm fine. Please settle down. I need your help.»

She taught me to project when we did this before. I had to really focus for her to hear. Now she's just hearing?

Or maybe I'm just flipping out and the projecting is—

«Buffy?»

But you're hurt.

«I'm fine.»

Uh, I mean, _yea_h…you're okay?

«_I'm fine_.»

I'm sorry.

«It's okay.»

I rest my cheek against her shoulder. My skin feels like it's been sanded. It hurts, but at the same time it's good. She rubs my back to calm me. My shirt sticks, but—

Something brushed my leg. Then the plant moved. Next was the explosion.

«There wasn't an explosion. Think about it.»

The plants blew apart. They disintegrated. I go over it again and she corrects me.

«Yeah, sort of, but no fire. Here watch.»

She shows me, somehow slowing things down so they make sense. The plants become a swarm. Or maybe it was a swarm _on_ the plants not _in_ the plants. I can't tell. But she's right, there wasn't an explosion, just tons of little blackish-green specks, sorta like bugs. The fire was me. Me and lots of creative license. Spielberg would be proud.

The girls! I tense up. What happened to—?

«They're fine. See?»

As the swarm surrounds us, Will casts a shield and lifts me up into it. The girls are thrown back the way we came, through the portal. Part of the cloud follows them. I don't know why, but it can't get through. Must be Will. It bounces off the portal and flies back at us.

I should've known. She said she'd do that. She didn't want them to come, but she—

«It's fine, Buffy. Just relax.»

The swarm's out there and we're—

"Some things never change. The blind still lead the blind."

Uh-boy. I sort of missed the obvious. The strange voice clears that up for me.

"Did you bring us a tribute, witch?"

I roll my eyes. We've got company. Our luck, lots of company.

The only real surprise is how far away she sounds. We must be near the ceiling.

Will shouts, "We've come for what belongs to us."

Completely blowing Will off, Medusa replies, "It's been ages since we've had a slayer to entertain us. The last one was such pleasant company I gouged her eyes out to afford us more time."

It's nice to feel appreciated.

«That's not Medusa. Perseus beheaded Medusa.»

Okay, whatever…I wish she'd stop.

«Clash of the Titans, remember? We watched it with Xander.»

But that was just a stupid movie.

«You should've learned the same thing when Ms. Miller covered Greek mythology in English class.»

Ms. Miller? That was sophomore year. You can't seriously expect me to remember—

«_Buffy_.» Funny, Will manages scold me while she simultaneously takes me off the market. "The slayer's mine." She pulls off annoyed and indifferent so seamlessly that I almost miss: "You'll have to fight me for her." She's practically territorial. There's just a hint of a smile in her voice when she adds, "I don't think you want that."

«We need to do this and go. Can you sense Dawn?»

I thought you couldn't fight them?

«I can't. Not directly. But I can make things pretty interesting for them.»

"You know better, witch." The gorgon, whoever she is, sounds way more amused than Will.

«Dawn?»

Oh! Yeah, umm…this is just too weird. She needs to slow down if she expects me to play along. I think—

My skin goes all tingly and warm. The pain eases and my head starts to swim just a little.

It's okay. It's just Will making things even harder on me.

As I search, trying to give her what she wants, angry cries sound out below us. The 'interesting' must've started.

"You'll pay for this!" the gorgon rages.

Yeah, that would be the 'interesting.' I wonder what Will's doing to them.

She shouts, "Put it on my tab," grumbling internally, «Annoying bitches.»

_Will, _shame on you_._

I can't help it, I have to snicker. This is almost funny. From the rumbling sounds, I'd guess that she's redecorating.

«Uh, sorry…but they _are_. Y'know, any time would be good.»

Huh?

«Dawn, remember? Sweet girl, kinda tall. Sometimes taller. Y'know, _your _sister?»

Oh…'kay, so…sarcasm not really helpful…but nine o'clock maybe?

«Yeah, that's what I thought too. Wrap your legs around my waist. You're gonna have to let go of me. Don't worry, I won't let you fall.»

It feels kinda weird, but I do. I think I see where she's going with this. I grab and we bail.

«Just trust me. When you have her, knock her out.»

You want me to hit Dawn?

«Yeah, you have any better ideas?»

Nope. I really wish I did. I'll probably never hear the end of this.

This was already too—

«Hold on to me until you see Dawn, 'kay?»

Alright.

She grabs the sides of my drop harness. I almost didn't wear the stupid thing. I'm kind of glad I did now.

«I won't let go.»

That's _so _not what's stressing me out. Our clothes are all sweaty and stuck to our skin. And what she wants is—

«Focus, _please_.»

My cheeks flush. Like I need more heat. I'm already dying. I do what she wants, tightening my hold and she—

_We_ turn. She's on top of—

«I'm really sorry, but this is gonna hurt.»

What happened to pep talks? Remember those? Nice, fluffy little platitudes—

Oh hell!

I hate it when she does this!

The acceleration is—

It's scary, but in a really cool way.

And being blind again or still, all I can do is hope, or pray. One of those, maybe two…

Two gees, maybe three. Something just short of passing out—something that makes Bernadine look like a pathetic toy. I stiffen against the force.

She'd look really cute in—

And suddenly, I see. It's strange, what I see is Dawn. No green skin, nothing weird, just my little sister. And I can't take my eyes off her. She's right below us.

I reach down and snatch hold of her raised hand, hanging on for all I'm worth.

My arm snaps tight. It hurts like hell, but I can't let go. I won't let go.

None of this matters. I do my job. If being ripped from a standstill to whatever—

That wasn't enough to make her black out. I thump her over the head. She goes limp.

We climb, almost straight up. It makes me dizzy.

I think I'm gonna be sick.


	9. Gravity: 3g

**Gravity  
3g**

* * *

"Shush, it's okay. I've got you."

Her voice is soft and soothing. The sunlight's so warm. My skin's all tingly.

She smiles. Exactly that smile. Everything's so beautiful, perfect almost to the last detail. I think everyone should have at least one perfect day.

We stroll through the park, just us Scoobies. Children play and birds sing. It's a little chilly, but the air smells crisp and good.

This definitely isn't home. It's too bad my one perfect day didn't happen there. I miss the—

It's weird. There are things you really don't notice until they're gone.

Tropical plants aren't native to Southern California, so they always looked staged. Golf courses in the desert, palm trees in the city…it's all part of that. Everything has that quality, like it's been touched. Nothing really belongs. It sounds awful when I put it that way.

It isn't. I think it's beautiful. I miss it. Just one palm tree would've made this so much more, umm…

A little boy calls out to his friends. The sound of children playing is pretty much the same everywhere in the world, until someone speaks. I picked up enough French in high school to almost carry on a conversation with a six-year-old. He wants to see the ball. Or I think that's it. It's either that or something about a bowl. Doubtful. Another little boy tosses a big red ball overhead with both arms. It's about all he can manage. He nearly lands on his butt.

Yup, that was it.

I giggle and turn to Will. She's so pretty. All of the stress she normally carries is gone. She swings her arms as she walks, like she doesn't have a care in the world.

Strange, but comforting.

And Xander seems better…or he's acting like he's better. The great big, gaping holes Sunnydale left are in the past. I'm glad. I was worried about him. He's laughing and smiling…and of course, cracking silly jokes.

Weird, it's my birthday. Maybe it really was just the Hellmouth making my life a nightmare. Since I've been here, at least that much has normaled up.

It could be that the sunset guy's actually cutting me some slack. Unlikely, but maybe. Could be he likes birthdays. No clue.

I think we tried to make this day perfect just so we'd have something to hold on to. I did. After everything that happened, when we were finally together again, I just had to. I had to make them smile. I had to smile even if it was the last thing I felt like doing. I forced it. And by forcing it, because they were happy, they made me happy.

Understanding that what we have is fleeting changes you. You make the best of what you have.

This one day—I could live here. But I can't. My body feels heavy. I'm not awake…or not entirely awake. Everything's too murky. I'm clinging to the last remnants of sleep.

I get that.

But maybe I could. Nothing says I _have_ to wake up. This might be the answer. I could just stay here. There has to be a way to do that. There are ways to do pretty much everything else, even stuff that people think is impossible, like returning from the grave.

I could play 'Groundhog Day' until stuff blows over. But I wouldn't need to change a thing. I could just hang out and be with the people I love.

It's not a bad idea, but the pain tells me something else. Somewhere, not here, I _hurt_. I'm still way too hot and every inch of me stings or aches or…

Umm…does that weird burny-itchy thing. I hate that. My head's all muzzy and throbby. I may have a concussion. That'd explain this.

One thing's for sure, I'm gonna have one helluva headache. Moving fast is a really bad idea. Moving at all will probably suck.

If it wasn't for the smell, I might wig. But the smell is too, umm…mediciney, maybe too herbaly? Has to be something Will cooked up.

I don't want to open my eyes. How I got here, 'where' here is—total mystery. One I'm in no hurry to solve. I want this to last as long as possible. This is probably the only break I'm gonna get. The one or two brain cells that haven't been bruised tell me that.

Besides, there's nothing indicating that I'm in danger, so…

Actually, it's kind of the opposite. The hard surfaces suck. But on the plus side: I'm up to my neck in warm water. Speculation seems safe. I'm probably in a bathtub. Where the bathtub is hardly matters. 'Bathtub' denotes brightly lit little rooms where people usually leave you alone…unless they're your sister.

The last thing I remember, we stopped. It's not falling or flying that kills, it's that sudden stop. All the fluids and other goodies in your body just keep going. That's what makes fighter pilots black out. Why I know that—equally clueless. Too much Discovery Channel I guess.

The real mystery is how she stopped like that and stayed conscious. I mean, she'd have to, what with the fall and the monsters. If one didn't kill us, the other would. It's just a fact. So, _me_, _here_, _now_ is pretty good indication…

I'd say I'm not dead. I'm in too much pain for that.

It's pretty bad when the pain tells you—

"Get off of me!"

My eyes snap open. It's Will. She's in trouble.

I reach forward, grabbing onto the tub to leap out. My shoulder pulls. The pain is—

My shoulder nearly pops, but the pain—it shoots down my arm. My fingers slip. They stop working. I fall backwards.

Water sloshes onto the floor behind me. Blurry flashes of light make me dizzy and sick.

I stare my hand. It's raw looking, like it's been partially flayed. My arm's crisscrossed with scratches. Dark red lines. So many it—

Another voice cuts through, "What's wrong with you?"

Panic.

Her and me. Both of us.

My stomach clenches. I set my jaw.

Not Will. That's wasn't Willow.

Was that Satsu?

That was weird. I thought there was some sort of social taboo preventing English people from getting that flustered. She didn't even sound—

But that takes a close second to the tub. There's a red smear on the edge where I touched.

The water's red. It's hard to tell what's—it looks a little like Jell-O—like when you're making Jell-O. Dark red and—

The color scares me. The water's still sloshing, moving front to back…back and forth…

Not Jell-O. It's too thick. Like syrup.

Raspberry syrup?

Well, that explains everything. Will left me to marinade in a tub full of—

"Get off! Let me go!" Her frantic cries take my mind off the syrup.

I try again, this time with my left arm. The right one's done. It's dislocated or something. I guess she set it. I don't remember her setting it and that worries me.

Whatever. Not using that one. It's too tender.

"Will, are you oh…?" Crashing comes from the other room, cutting Satsu off. I jump out of the bath as she begs, "Willow! No, please stop!" Sliding, I catch myself on the vanity.

Wrong arm! I use the other. Oww! Both. Somehow I keep from falling.

"Willow?"

A door slams. No clue who said that last part. Not me. Probably Satsu. She's just more wigged than I've ever heard her. It's—

I leave more red handprints on the counter. They look like something from a 'B' horror movie.

There are footprints too. Same story. Dark red on green tile. Cheery.

What the hell's wrong with me?

It looks like they left me to exsanguinate in the bathtub. I obviously didn't, but—

It's not blood. The color's off and texture's totally wrong. Blood's more opaque and sticky. This stuff's clearer and slimy. It's sticky too, but not the same.

Well, whatever it is, I'm covered in it. I part my fingers and that weird, viscous, webby thing happens.

I've been slimed.

I'm really faint and I hurt in fun new ways, but it doesn't matter. I'm still able to move.

The mirror glints out of the corner of my eyes. Not gonna look. That wouldn't be good. I need to keep moving.

I go for the robe hanging on the door and put it on, tying it closed. Everywhere I touch, the white terrycloth turns red. My right hand's the worst of it. At least I think it is. I hope it is.

Using my left hand, I open the bathroom door and peek out. I'm in the room where we put the statues. Granite Xander stands across from me, looking terrified…and horny. What a truly twisted combo.

Rowena and Satsu are between him and the door, whispering back and forth. They notice me and Satsu's expression changes. In a heartbeat, she goes from perfectly fine to disbelieving. Stopping somewhere around abject horror, she screams, "No!" She shoves Ro aside and charges. The look in her eyes says 'I'm the enemy.'

Reflex takes over. She kicks. I turn out of her attack. She just misses my face. It leaves her completely off balance. I thought she knew better than this. As she stumbles past me, I sweep my foot and take out her other leg. She topples backward.

I hate to do it, but she's completely out of her mind.

She lands, kicks off and springs up. This part's totally fluid. She's still Satsu. A really wigged, maybe-psychotic Satsu, but definitely Satsu.

And I'm still me. I use her inertia against her. She flips forward and I put everything I have into one brutal uppercut. It connects, throwing her onto her back. As she slides away, my hand explains in explicit terms why that was a truly awful idea. Clutching it, I drop to my knees.

Yup, still me…dumb as a post. Tears roll down my cheeks. They burn everywhere they touch.

While I was dealing with Satsu, butchering my hand and maybe re-dislocating my shoulder, Ro crossed the room. All I can do is hope she doesn't want to hurt me too. Not that it matters. I've got enough just—

"She's doon," Ro informs me after stooping to check Satsu out first.

Thanks for the news flash.

I look up. Y'know, I know I'm not exactly shower fresh which is funny what with the bathtub. But whatever…is it really all that bad? Her expression tells me 'yes,' emphatically.

I blow it off, muttering through clenched teeth, "You think maybe we could get Satsu to her room and—?" My throat tickles. I choke, doubling over in half.

Finally I get control. My eyes water. My nose is… I mop my face. It's useless. Everything, all of me, is covered in this—

I give up and try to finish my thought. "I dunno, maybe tie her up or something, before she actually kills someone?" God, I sound like shit.

"Yeah, na prublem. Boot I tink she's joost sceered," Ro replies.

Oh, come on. I get the 'want to protect your friends,' but really…'just scared'? Have you learned nothing? That's exactly what makes her dangerous. I give Ro a stern glare and offer my opinion, "Maybe so, but she seems pretty dangerous to me." There's an order in there. If she's smart, she'll follow it.

I still need to find Will. No wonder she bolted. I struggle to rise and Ro tries to help. It might actually be comical if it didn't hurt so damned much. Somehow, I make it to my feet. Now all I have to do is stay here. Every step is an adventure, but I manage to cross the room. It's like my skin's too tight or something. With every move, it pulls and burns.

At the doorway, I turn back and look at Dawn. She's lying in bed, covered up to her neck. It's funny, she looks so cozy. This might be any time. Me poking my nose in her room to make sure she's okay. Trouble is, her skin's still a sickly, powder green. And her hair—it really isn't hair. Nothing's changed. I sorta hoped it had. But that'd just be too easy.

It's funny, she's wearing dark glasses. They look totally out of place. I crack a grin despite myself.

"We shouldn't leave her alone," I remark as I open the door. "Would you call Ops and see if they'll send someone?"

"Yees, ma'am."

That's all I need to hear. I take off down the hall. Best I've got is a guess. Will would want out of here. I head for the front door. She's got at least five minutes on me. The truth is, she could be anywhere on the planet by now. All I have is hope.

Just my luck, it's what—probably mid-morning considering the hall traffic. Everyone steers clear. Shocked glances are the norm. Some of the girls are even clueless enough to stop and stare.

I lock eyes with one of the rubber-neckers. She wigs and looks away as I grumble, "Oh, come on. I get that I look like Carrie at her after prom party. But _really_…is all of this attention necessary? A couple of nights ago we had zombies climbing the walls. This stuff should be totally passé by now." The gripe takes me all the way into the main hall. More importantly, it takes my mind off the signals my body's sending. It's unhappy in a big way.

I make a beeline for the exit. I hope that when I get outside something will come to me—some inspiration. I push the door open and nothing. It's a nice sunny day and a lot of the girls are out here. Joy. But that's the only new thing I learn.

Ignoring them, I follow my nose. Of course, all that my nose knows is pungent herbal badness. I smell like one of those Asian homeopathic medicine shops.

I make it to the stable, completely on autopilot and turn around. I shake my head. The sun's in the western sky. It's mid-afternoon, not mid-morning. I'm totally lost.

Clueless.

This is useless.

Oh, no shit! It worked!

I stare at the tree line, trying to get my head around—

_It worked._ I smile. It hurts.

I don't care. This is just _too_ cool. It _actually_ worked.

How'd I miss that? Satsu might've been a raving lunatic, but she was totally _Satsu_.

Why Satsu? That makes no sense. Why'd she bail and leave Xander—?

Where's Will? We need to help Xander.

Well, maybe if I go in and get cleaned up, she'll show. I hope. It's _so _not like her to leave when she's actually getting somewhere.

I trudge back the way I came. It's so weird. I feel better, but worse. It's harder to move. The forty-five stairs that lay between me and my soft bed have never been more—

My body's stiff. My skin's—

I'm not even sure. It feels a couple of sizes too small.

Despite the warmth outside, in here it's chilly and damp. I shiver as I climb.

I finally make it to my room and almost turn around. I feel like an idiot. All that and I don't have the key. I try it anyway. It surprises me when the door swings open.

Will sits on the edge of my bed. Without even looking up, she says, "Close the door."

I shake my head and follow her completely unnecessary instruction. There's a large bowl on my nightstand and towels on the bed. I take the hint and lay down.

Reaching into the bowl, she fishes out a washcloth and wrings it. When she faces me, I ask, "What happened?"

She meets my eyes. Raising the cloth to my face, she gently wipes my forehead clean as she says. "You've been cut by a blade of grass, right?"

Not exactly what I meant, but why bother? She's bound to get there eventually. Besides, she sounds really stressed. Letting her lead—probably not a horrible idea.

The cloth's warm. I shut my eyes. Even with all of the—this feels good. Whatever's on the cloth smells sweet and kinda floral. It's a pretty smell. The weird part is that it mixes with the other smell. The two things actually smell good together.

We deserve a few minutes to just—

Uh…

Did she just say that grass did this?

No. She said before that the plants exploded…or she showed me. So the—?

Oh. She's gotta be kidding. You mean I got my clock cleaned by a bunch of stupid plants?

And a cleaner clock…always helpful.

Stupid expression. Who comes up with these?

My ass was gr—

I'm done.

Dealing. Moving on. Her question might've been rhetorical, but I answer anyway, "Yeah, when I was little." Maybe it'll help to talk. "I think that was part of growing up. I just had to know if it worked. Mom was less than impressed."

Will finishes up my face and rinses the cloth. My neck is next on the list. I get how this is gonna go. And honestly, I don't care. She can do whatever. I'll just be happy to be clean.

Uh, _yeah_, just keep telling yourself that. It'll help. Of course, it won't change the fact that she's extremely gentle and a little too attentive. It won't make her hands stop trembling. Or block her breath from your skin. And it _really_ won't change the fact that it's been over two years since anyone's touched—

But this _isn't_ that.

This is _me_ making this more than it is. The only saving grace is the pain. And even that's—

It wouldn't kill me to be a little less twisted. I should be ashamed. It's just…

It's sad. That's what it is.

I'm so attention starved. I want to read more in. I really need to stop being so pathetic. She's _just_ taking care of me. This is nothing new.

The shaking—it's nothing. It means _nothing_. She has lots of other reasons to wig…besides _me_. Like take the fact that she bailed on her best friend. Xander's still—but she's here with me.

And that makes no sense.

I shouldn't ask. But there's no way she wouldn't flip. She needs time.

It feels like a blessing when she starts to talk. "I've never seen anything like this. I think the plants produced some sort of natural anti-coagulant." Her tone is so straightforward. It's like she's giving a report. I close my eyes. Just focusing on the sound takes my mind off what she's doing and makes everything easier. "You were bleeding so badly. This was the only thing I could think to do. It works sort of like that liquid bandage stuff, but it's better for you. This is the second part. It seals the skin. The first part stops the bleeding and cleans the wounds."

I open my eyes when she laughs. A smile brightens her face. "I've just never had to use so much of it," she says, looking positively amused.

"It figures it'd be me," I reply with a snicker. "I've always been good for research and testing." Her smile's still infectious. I grin and I shut my eyes.

Water trickles into the bowl. She turns to face me and whispers, "Yeah, you do keep me on my toes."

When she runs out of bare skin, I reach for the belt of my robe, but she gently moves my hands away and takes over.

I really hope she finds something else to say.


	10. Gravity: 2g

**Gravity  
2g**

* * *

One glance in the mirror is all it takes. I understand why with perfect clarity.

And I'd really rather not.

So you'd think one glance would be enough. The sane thing would be to walk away, but I have to look again.

Will says it'll get better. I know she's right, but that doesn't change things now.

I really ought to just go. That'd be smart. But stupid me, I lean in to get a better look. I've never seen anything like this.

She said that too. _Helpful._

But really, she was. The sarcasm's what's less than _helpful_. It isn't even justified. She's the only reason I didn't bleed to death.

I tug the front of my undershirt down. My chest is pretty much the same. My bra helped some. Enough that I'm not a total tragedy.

I still don't know how she got Dawn back without anyone else getting petrified. Or how she kept the gorgons from hijacking our portal.

That would've been fun. I wonder what stops that from happening anyway…_normally_. You'd think with such an advantage they could just—

Again, not exactly helpful. But neither is this. I lift my undershirt up and look at my tummy. It's the same.

I'm not sure how she even found them in the first place. Anya said that was pretty much impossible. You don't just open a portal to another realm. Something about hitting a gnat with a dart or…

Maybe it was a swarm of gnats? I don't remember. She made it sound like you'd hit something, but probably not the same something you were shooting for.

I place my foot on the toilet lid and push up my sweats. My leg's exactly the same. It looks like I fell head-first into a briar patch…and just kept falling through _all _of the briar patches.

It's not quite that bad. Fine scrapes crisscross my skin. 'Grass cut' was actually the perfect description. They're deeper, cleaner and shorter than typical scratches. Each one isn't more than a centimeter long. They're just tiny little things, but there are so many.

Thousands?

Maybe tens of thousands. One thing's for sure, I'm not gonna take inventory.

It's okay. They'll fade. Nothing lasts on me. I only have three stubborn scars and the wounds were really deep. These aren't.

There are a few spots that were spared, but not many. Not nearly enough. Tight clothing mostly kept them out, so…

At least I didn't have to suffer through that. Her touching my thighs was bad enough. I would've died if—

But I understand now. I get why she reacted the way she did. Why she wanted to look so closely.

So, foundation?

I probably shouldn't, but the sealer Will used is some pretty serious stuff. I'd have to be a total dumbass to screw it up.

I'll be careful.

I reach for the basket with all my makeup and sort through it until I find the right thing. Yeah, this should do. This stuff was pretty much designed to hide a tragedy. Things like Mount Vesuvius-sized zits and birth marks that cover half your face…and what I got it for: bruises. A plethora of tiny cuts shouldn't be a problem.

My right hand just sucks. It's mostly covered in gauze. She left my index and middle fingers free, along with my thumb. Good thing too, 'cause if she hadn't, this Boris Karloff fashion statement would be history. As it is, the sling just had to go.

I'll be fine.

I should moisturize first. But given—I think I'll skip it.

I open the lid of the heavy mineral oil foundation and remove the brush. Funny, I've barely used this. That's seriously gonna change. It takes a few minutes, but I manage to layer on enough to make my skin look smooth.

There's one thing that really worries me. Where it doesn't just outright hurt, my skin's numb to the touch. I have to press to feel anything at all. And when I do all I feel is icky and prickly. I noticed it when Will was—

I don't know if that'll go away. I hope it does. But those three spots, the scars that actually stuck. All of them feel like this.

At least the blindfold spared my eyes. This could've been so much worse.

I stare at my reflection, meticulously painting on the face I need to see. It still feels weird, but I'm starting to look like me.

I'm really glad she went to sleep. She was exhausted. And there wasn't anything left for us to talk about.

What could I possibly say?

No one's touched me—I want to think _like that_, but that isn't right at all. The only one who's ever touched me _like that_ is her. It wasn't the way she touched me, but where. No one's touched me there since Spike. And the last time he touched me _like that,_ he tried to rape me.

I'm not sure she gets that. How much trust it takes.

I forgave him. And none of them can understand why. But that doesn't matter. Forgiveness is meaningless…to this, at least. It's a separate thing.

There's still a part of me that'll always remember how that felt. That's not something you just forget. You move on. You try to get your life back. But you never forget.

That was my wake up call.

I heard it. And I almost listened.

That's why I forgave him, because he was the bigger person. He actually listened. He tried to change. In fact, he tried so hard it killed him.

Not much has changed with me. Well, everything's changed. But _me_, the person I am—

No giant leaps forward here. Progress is overrated.

Thing is, the change didn't matter. He was right. I still can't love him. The part of me that remembers won't go there.

I finish up my mascara and toss all of my makeup in the basket, then push it back where it belongs.

I look like me. That's all I needed. I flip off the light and exit the bathroom.

Will's still asleep. I walk over to the bed and sit down. She makes a couple of silly, incoherent sounds before wrapping her arm around my tummy.

People forget how to lie when they're asleep. There's no pretense. What you see is actually the truth. She cares. That much is totally true.

Smiling, I take her hand and wait. I need to figure this out before it gets too late. And I'd like her to think I've been here all along.

As I caress the back of her hand with my thumb, her arm grows heavier. When I'm sure she's good and conked, I slip free and leave the room.

I can't believe she lied to me! Why'd she even bother? She's terrible at it and she knows it. Now I need to know why. There's only one way to find out.

I walk down the hallway to Satsu's room and tap on the door. I'm so not looking forward to this. There's only one explanation for how she reacted. She's hallucinating. Me covered in bloody slime wouldn't freak her out like that. It'd be bad, but a different kind of bad. It'd take something worse—something different—to make her attack me. And I have to know what.

Whatever it is, Will lied to me about it. She said it was nothing. That Satsu was just delirious. But Will wouldn't react that way either. Not without a reason. She's the nurturing type. She'd want to help. The two things just aren't meshy. If I know the truth about one, I can probably figure the other out.

When Ro opens the door, I ask, "How is she?"

"Joos fine," she replies with a smile.

Cutting straight to the chase, I announce, "I need to see her." I motion for Ro to step aside as I ask, "Would you mind?" It's not a question.

She sneaks past me into the hall as I step through the doorway and turn to face her. She looks concerned. And that's totally fair. So am I. I offer a reassuring smile and say, "I won't be long. Take ten. Grab a snack," but she doesn't budge.

My expression hardens. She doesn't look away. Instead she replies, "If you dun't mind, ma'am, I'd like tu vate." I nod and shut the door.

That wasn't about me. Well, not really. I don't take it personally. Ro's one of those girls that doesn't have a lot. Her family's pretty shitty, so we became her family. She's protecting us. And I can totally respect that. Besides, backup—if this goes like everything else has today—not a terrible thing.

Satsu's wearing that same crazy, saucer-eyed expression when I face her. It might not be as bad. At least she's not losing it—not trying to break the ropes or anything. Not yet. Give it time.

I ask, "What do you see?" I have to figure the direct approach is gonna be best. I've been there. And reason isn't something you immediately see.

She locks eyes with me and stammers, "Yu-you're dead."

Surprised, but not really, I say, "Oh." I can't help grinning. "Huh." Well, that's not new. "You mean like flesh-eating zombie 'dead'?" I really should be ashamed of myself, but the question just sorta pops out. And as usual, I open my mouth and things get worse. She tweaks.

I mumble, "Yeah, 'cause that'd make total sense." 'Fresh from the funeral home _dead_' wouldn't freak her out so much. No surprise. My observation doesn't help.

It takes a few for her to chill. I wait. When she's mostly over the wig, I raise my hands and very slowly, inch toward the bed. I think I can fix this. As I move, I explain what I'm doing, "Look, I get that you're scared. But if I really am what you think I am, I won't have a pulse. I'm gonna let you check. Okay?"

She's not been catatonic, so that sorta rules out the full sensory head trip. This is like IMAX. Everything she sees is really real and lots of fun, but it's all smoke and mirrors. With any luck, I can, uh…make her see that.

And that I know so much about this only proves just how truly screwed up my life's been.

I rest my left wrist in the palm of her hand. It's really weird seeing her like this, but I'm glad she's tied up. I've smacked her down once today. I'd hate to have to do that again.

All I can do is try to put her at ease. She can't really move much, so I help position her fingers. She feels my skin and some of her tension fades. When she locates my pulse, things get even better.

I take her hand and say, "I'm really sorry about this." I want that to be an apology. But I really can't apologize for doing what's right. I can't let her walk around like this. Who knows who else she'd attack. I just hope it passes.

She tries to make eye contact. It doesn't work. She turns away. I don't blame her. And I don't want to stress her out any more than I have to. So, again, I get right to the point. "Look, I need to know something. You don't see the same thing when you look at different people. That much is obvious. What'd you see when you looked at Will?"

Satsu mumbles, "Light."

'Kay, that's not really helpful. I give her a sec, hoping she has more to offer. Finally, I run short on patience and ask, "What kind of light? Is she like a big glowy ball?"

"No, she's beautiful."

An annoying little niggle of jealousy accompanies her statement. Yeah, I'm seriously losing patience with this. One more time. I ask, "Would you mind describing exactly what you saw?" I can't make it any plainer. It might be easier for me to talk to Ro. She was alone with Satsu for hours. You'd sort of think they'd talk.

Huh, imagine that. I might be firming up.

Satsu whispers, "Her hair was white and her skin was pale, like a porcelain doll. She shimmered in the light."

Her voice has this dreamy quality. Honestly, if I wasn't irritated before—

"The light, it was in her eyes. But I blinked and she changed. There was nothing. The light was gone and her hair was black."

"Alright, I get it," I interject, hoping she'll just stop. Me dead and Will with black hair. That much rings a bell. She's seeing our pasts.

She turns really quickly to face me. It hurts her to look at me, but she doesn't give in. Glaring, she asks, "Do you?" I gape at her, not knowing what to expect. "Ro told me some things. I get what this is. It's not about the past or the future. Not really. It's about the person. This is the truth."

Huh?

"How'd you die, Buffy?"

Again, I say, _huh?_

Which time? I guess she means the one that should've stuck.

She knows this. They all know this. It's practically required reading. Not that I want it to be.

I respond dryly, "I fell." That's not all of it, but I'm not gonna explain. I shouldn't have to. I fell…and I haven't stopped falling.

"Then why's there a knife in your back?"

"What?"

"There's a knife in your back, right between your shoulder blades. It looks like something a Klingon might carry."

"A _cling on_? Clinging to what? You mean like static?"

"Star Trek?"

I just stare.

Clueless.

Oh! That's that stupid show Xander likes. Klingons are the guys with cheap fake tans, Grecian Formula hair and paste-on goatees. There are Muppets with better hair. And those clothes! They wear those awful black and silver polyester jumpsuits.

I shudder.

Knives? They had knives? There might've been a letter opener, but I don't remember any knives.

While I'm trying to decipher Satsu's cleverly encrypted geek code, she gets all serious on me. I think we have enough geeks. I'm gonna vote that she never become one of them. They can't have her.

That is, if there's even a vote. There's never a vote.

Finally, she explains, "This means something. Either someone's going to try to kill you or maybe they'll betray you? Or maybe they _did_ betray you. It has to be something like that."

And here I was looking for answers. Silly me, I should've expected more questions. Maybe if I asked for questions someone would actually give me answers?

Nah, that's too easy. It'd never work.

I should check on Dawn. If Will's up when I get back, I'll be able to tell her the truth. Or part of it, instead of just outright lying. She needs to learn that trick.

Besides, I should. I need to know Dawn's okay. And it'd be nice to know if they've made some headway with Xander. I don't see why Will won't. She just got really defensive. Talk about high drama. I didn't have the heart to reply, 'Not really,' when she shouted, 'Can't you see what this is doing to me?'

Well, I can, but I can't. She's obviously wigged about something. No clue what. But I can't see what's so bad that she can't help her oldest, dearest friend.

I chickened out. It was easier to drop it. And probably safer. I'm afraid I'll hit a nerve and she'll disappear again.

Just standing here is pointless. I excuse myself. "Thanks. I need to go, but one more thing. If you knew what this was, why'd you get so upset?"

"Have you seen yourself?" Satsu asks, immediately thinking better of it. "No, I guess you haven't." She anxiously looks away. "Sorry. I had to talk with Ro for this to make sense."

I head for the door, turning back to say, "That's okay. Fair enough." As I exit the room, curiosity strikes. Ro's standing just down the hallway, but I have to ask, "What about Ro? What do you see?" Guilt takes over and I give Ro a nervous glance. "Umm…I mean, if it's alright to ask."

"Blood."

Yeah, I should've known better.


	11. Gravity: 9g

**Gravity  
9g**

* * *

I was dreaming.

I have no idea why I'm awake, whether it was the dream that woke me or something else.

Moonlight pours in through my bedroom window, creating a pool on the floor.

There was an angel. Or I think she was an angel.

A few moments drift by. I can't piece it together. It's like a bunch of broken fragments. And they're fading. What's left doesn't make any sense at all.

Movement in the hallway distracts me. I sit up and look around. I'm alone. It's almost midnight. Will went to sleep around six. That's plenty of time. It's probably just her.

Her and a herd of hippos in pink tutus.

This isn't funny.

Do I or do I not live with over two-hundred other slayers?

It's probably just a patrol, but it doesn't sound right. The girls move lighter. And they always chit-chat to pass the time.

Quick, but quiet, I slide across my bed. I want the scythe. It's propped in the corner next to my weapons chest. I'm not even sure how it got there, but—

Who cares? It's there and I snatch it up. The _feel good_ doesn't last. My first impulse makes me feel like I'm five. Not to mention, more than a little bit paranoid. I follow it anyway. Dropping to the floor, I join the litter of dust bunnies under my bed. I never did clean under here. It's just plain gross.

That and if my instincts are right, this is so obvious, it's barely worth doing. It's _not_ worth the ick-factor. But it's also the best idea I have.

That's so sad.

The door rattles, makes a popping noise and swings open. A strange female voice calls out, "Ms. Summers, it's time for your medicine."

'Kay, so…maybe I should be upset? I just got one upped. I'm no longer the most pathetic person in this room.

Back to the two-hundred slayers I live with. How'd these freaks get past the patrols?

Oh, and scratch 'paranoid.' That doesn't even apply. Labels like that should only be used to describe people who don't have military organizations hunting them. But that's just the cherry on top of this sundae of evil.

Do they make evil sundaes?

Well, we've seen evil chocolate bars. Why not evil sundaes?

Yeah, that's _exactly_ what this is. Every demon, vamp and even the occasional god wants me dead. Now my own people want to prick with me…?

Sounds like a garnish on a yummy treat.

Shadows move on the floor at the foot of my bed. There are at least five of them, maybe more.

I'm screwed.

But these aren't 'my people.' My people are here. These people are just from the same country I am. I suppose, it'd be more accurate to say 'my own government.'

'Cause accuracy always makes the truly twisted so much easier to take.

As they enter my room, I have an idea. It's crazy, but in a good way. Careful to not give myself away, I lay the scythe down and glance past my feet toward the door. They're all right there clustered at the foot of my bed.

I give my mattress and box spring a hard shove. The whole heavy, awkward thing flips up. But it's not quite enough. I spring up, hit it again and dive for the scythe.

The bad guys are really noisy. Well, them and my bed. Crashing, thudding, grunting…the usual stuff.

Bet they didn't see that coming.

And go figure, it pisses them off. Gunfire rings out. As I roll away from what's left of my bed, bullets tear through it. A few hit just a little too close for comfort. But there's no pattern, except I count eight. The person shooting's all over the place. Good thing eight seems to be it. And there's only one gun. But one's enough.

Plenty!

Too much!

God, I hate guns!

The pause gives me time to get up and _gone_. Right in front of them, even flat on the floor, is the worst possible place to be. As I sprint to the right of the door, a metallic scrape and click tells me that the one with the gun just reloaded.

What's left of my mattress and box springs lay at an angle, propped against the door. They shudder and go bouncing across the footboard when the men force their way in. Now, the door is _cover_ and my mattress and box spring are _obstacles_. Both things work in my favor. The gun still sucks, but I might be okay.

I kick the half-opened door closed. I smile when the guy who's stupid enough to just stand there yelps. That door weighs a ton. His right arm's toast. He pushes it open. Or maybe he falls against it. It's hard to say, but the door swings open again.

Y'know, I've had dreams like this. Armed men dressed in the latest paramilitary eveningwear bust into my room. They never end well. You'd think there might be the potential for naughty fun, especially with the Riley reference. But silly me, I always miss the hunky honey and go straight to the bad place. I guess it's because Mr. Iowa wasn't so much about that.

And that turned out well.

The woman says, "This is all very amusing, but I've got your witch. Why don't you just come out before I get frustrated and do something we'll both regret?"

And so did this.

A little cavalry action wouldn't go amiss right about now. My whole team's down this hall. Where are all they?

I call out, "Alright, just don't hurt her." I'm out of options. It's hard for me to believe that they overpowered Will. But 'no cavalry' too really stresses me out. This place should be crawling with slayers.

I step over the bed rail, holding the scythe out of view. As I move, I let it slide from my grasp. They don't notice that I prop it against the corner of the bed frame. That much is good.

Raising my hands, I step into view next to the corner of my mattress and lock eyes with—

Unbelievable!

Well, _no_, not really. It's just my luck.

The bitch from the video stands in my doorway. And she's not lying. Or at least, I don't think she is. The woman in her arms is slumped forward unconscious. It looks like Will. I'm not really sure when she had time to bleach her hair, but—

While her new look might be, uh…interesting—hell, it may even be cute—it takes a big fat second place to the gun pointed at her head.

That nasty, skanky slut! What's her name? Will told me. Rilah? No, that's not it.

_Riah?_ Yeah, I think that's right, but that _so_ doesn't matter.

Well, it may matter, but only to the guy engraving her headstone.

I cock my hip and ask, "Now what?"

"Don't worry, Blondie, the fun's just getting started," the dead woman replies.

Okay, so…enough bullshit. Time to get real. What do I know?

Well, first thing, this is a rerun. And the last time she went all Doctor Mengele. Odds are, she wants to finish.

But I'm gonna kill her first.

There are a few other fun factoids working in my favor here. The first is that what's-her-face _will_ try to shoot me. She'll forget about Will entirely. But it'll take her a sec to get it together. Her wannabe gansta pose tells me she's not very good with a gun. The rest is written all over her face. She hates me. That'll make her even sloppier.

Fun factoid number two: the guy with the gimpy arm is to her right and looking really pissy. He hates me too. But his hand's puffy. It doesn't matter that his finger's on the trigger, he's gonna be Slow Draw McGraw.

Those two are blocking the others. They can't shoot without hitting their own, so they probably won't.

I actually have a chance. I might be crazy, but I take it. Giving Riah my best smile, I whisper, "You're right."

Her eyes narrow, but I don't give her pea brain time to catch up. There's maybe five feet between me and Mr. Gimpy. Using my mattress as a springboard, I make it evaporate before he can blink.

I spin him to face his boss as he fires. A bolt of electricity arcs from his rifle. It hits everything else but me.

She tries to turn and aim. It doesn't go well for either of them. I hit the deck and…

He shoots her. She shoots him. It's messy. Guns are just bad.

While I'm ducking, I sweep the bitch's feet. She fumbles Will and I intercept.

My only real worry is her. I should be worried about the other five guys. But she got zapped in the crossfire.

As the others open fire, I slam the door. It doesn't quite shut, but it gets me what I want. Enough cover to do something completely nuts.

I wish I had something better, but I'm fresh out of options. I heave Will over my shoulder, grab the scythe and sprint for the window. It's our best bet. They'd be crazy to follow us.

I hold the scythe out. It breaks the window for me. The soldiers burst into my room as we hang in midair. I know that's not it, but it feels that way. We're just moving fast enough there's a nice gradual arc at first.

And that's totally rational. But what just happened catches up.

So much for rational. I hear my heart pounding.

Maybe I am crazy?

Cold and crazy.

The ground is covered with thick puffy white clouds. I can't tell where it is.

I glance over my shoulder, hoping for something to grab hold of.

It's useless. We went too far. There's nothing.

No pretty glow.

Nothing.

I'm falling.

I'm _still_ falling.

Think, Buffy! If we land like this—

I throw Will.

My knees buckle. I crumple forward. My hip hits the ground, then my shoulder. I roll, tumble and stop.

I can't breathe.

I gasp, desperate for air.

It's cool. Fine. I'll be fine. I just got the wind knocked out me for uh…about the millionth time. This is nothing. I just have to relax. Take shallow breaths.

Finally, I draw in a painful, but complete…and completely shaky breath.

Y'know it's bad when it hurts to breathe. But then everything hurts, so why not my lungs? A groan slips out. I sound pitiful.

I flop over onto my back and peer blankly into nothing. A milky blue glow appears.

I blink.

Am I seeing things?

Jagged lines cut through the poofy white like lightening. As they create a web over my head, my skin tingles. It's pretty. A weird, grinding, buzzy sound accompanies the show.

I feel so light. It's like I'm still falling. But I hurt too much for that. And there's this wet, nasty stuff stuck to my back. Might be grass? Could be mud? Who cares?

It was such a nice day. The little bit of it I saw. I think, maybe…it rained? I heard rain in my dream. Now it's so cold. I'm soaked and freezing. My shorts and a tee-shirt stick to me. I may as well be naked. My teeth chatter.

A second pulse of light ripples through the fog. Mesmerized by it, I stare. It's so beautiful.

The buzzing noise grows louder.

The back of my neck prickles.

This is bad.

I tense.

A lightning bolt touches down. It hits the scythe, just inches from my head.

I jerk away.

There's no loud boom. Just sizzling and popping.

Rolling, I put some distance between myself and whatever that is.

Do you hear thunder when you're this close?

I stare at scythe. Electricity crackles around it. It flows over my wet skin, all tingly.

Yeah, _yeah_, you would. If you were still conscious, it'd be instantaneous.

This isn't that. It's not that powerful.

Oh my god! It's those stupid blasters! The crackling stops and I reach for the scythe. I half expect to get shocked, but I don't. I snatch it up and flee.

I have to find Will. I think I threw her this way. But I can't see anything. The fog's just too thick. And I can't stand up, not with them—not that it would do any good. I crawl through the wet grass, avoiding the lights as I search.

Finally, I stumble across her. It feels like pure dumb luck. A miracle. But the happiness doesn't last. There's something wrong. I know it.

I touch her. She should move. Or groan. Or _something_. There's always something. I shake her, hoping…

Nothing.

I put my hand to her mouth. She's not breathing! I search for a pulse. There isn't one!

Damn it, Will! Don't do this to me!

Tears cloud my eyes. Seeing wasn't hard enough…

I tilt her head back, pitch her nose and breathe into her mouth. Two puffs, then I compress her chest.

Two sets and I check for a pulse.

Nothing.

She's dead.

No, she can't be.

That's just crazy. It's wrong!

I guess they really were trying to kill me.

A snicker disguised as a snort slips out.

And another.

My head may reach critical mass any second now.

I giggle. I shouldn't. I should be—

Tears roll down my cheeks. I wheeze.

My hands are shaking. I touch her cheek.

Her head lolls and falls to one side. Her mouth hangs open.

She's _dead_.

The giggles turn to hiccoughs. The hiccoughs turn to sobs.

Nothing's really changed, but I feel strangely saner.

I slump forward. My cheek rests on her chest.

I'm shaking so hard I—

I hold her tight to make it stop.

She isn't breathing. Her heart isn't beating.

I've gotta get control. I'm useless like this!

It hasn't been that long. I just need to—

The truth is, I have no idea how long it's been.

That doesn't matter! I can fix this. All I have to do is—

I pick myself up and press my lips to hers. They're chilly and limp.

The impulse is insane. Way less sane than any of this. I can't help it. Between breaths, I kiss her.

It works in fairytales. I love her, I kiss her, and she wakes up.

Nothing.

Tears drip from my nose and chin.

You can't leave me. I won't allow it!

Holding back, I pound on her chest. I remember Mom. I—

I was too—

There was a crack and—

I breathe for her and taste the salt on her mouth.

Not Will. She's gonna come back. I'm gonna make her. She's young and healthy. There's no reason for this.

And I'm not gonna let her go. I refuse.

I hit her again. It's a little too hard.

As I pull back, shaking so hard I can't continue, she gasps. I touch her. Her stomach muscles tense. She's trying to sit up.

Maybe? I dunno.

She chokes.

I touch her face. Her breath caresses my hand. It feels so good. I smile.

We need to go. The lights are still—

We have to go _now_.

I whisper, "I'm sorry," as I grab the scythe and gently scoop her up.

The castle wall lights up. I scramble to my feet, still bent down, trying not to—

There are three men crushed into my window, firing into the fog. They haven't seen us yet. I turn away. The tree line comes into view and I bolt. We'll be safe there.

But when we reach the trees, I don't stop. I weave between them, moving deeper into the darkness.

Something digs into my foot. But I'm so cold and numb, I barely feel it. It's not until it gives out that I get how badly I'm hurt. I stumble, but somehow I stay upright. I don't want to stop, but I have no choice.

As I drop to my knees, the fog rises up around us. It's thinner here. Sort of wispy. For the first time I really get a look at Willow. This can't be right. I blink, but nothing changes.

Alright, that does it! This day just can't get any more fucked up! Satsu told me about this. I didn't get it, so I didn't listen. Stupid me.

This isn't Willow. Or it is, but it isn't. This isn't the person I remember. It's what Satsu described.

As I gape at Will, it hits me. The Guardian, she was like this. It was like she'd been touched by something. Something bigger. Something really old and powerful. It's probably just Will's hair that's making me think that. She's lots younger and, umm…a whole lot cuter.

That can't be it.

She opens her eyes and it's all I can do to not drop her. It's not what I pictured at all. Satsu said light. It is, but only sort of. Really, it's like there's too much color. Her eyes glisten in the dark. And her skin…

She's deathly pale, but her skin shimmers. And that's not bleach. Her hair's white, like snow. Not thin and wispy like she's old, but—

I want to look away. I have to fight not to.

An angel.

I get it.

But I blink again and it all goes away. It was an illusion.

Quite possibly a _delusion_.

_My_ Willow lies in my arms. Red hair, hazel green eyes and freckles. Lots and lots of freckles.

I smile. She looks bad. But I'm so happy to have her back, I think she's gorgeous.

She says, "We need to get to Ops." Her voice is really frail. It worries me, but she's absolutely right.

I lay her on the forest floor and sit down, folding my legs so I can see my foot. It's a bloody mess.

Dammit! I sound like Spike. But it is. Maybe this is what he meant when he said that.

I swear, if anything went—

Oww!

The problem's glaringly obvious when I run my finger over the wound. I grasp the splinter with my nails and pull. It comes out okay. It's not really that long, only about an inch.

Okay, that's long. And it hurts like a sonuvabitch.

It's good. I'll be fine. Clean it out, wrap it up and add it to the ever-expanding list of things that need to heal.

I pick up the scythe, take her in my arms and stand. She's right. The castle's under attack. We should be in Ops.

After retracing my steps back to where we entered the forest, I skirt its edge, keeping the castle in view. At the north east corner, I sprint across the lawn. There's a service entrance with two huge doors. We use it as a garage for the Jeeps. Dawn even stayed here for a while. She just barely fit. But it was the only place she was gonna fit.

I go to the console to the right of the doors. I have to kind of shift Will a little, but I manage to type in my access code. She doesn't even stir. It worries me. I lift her up until I feel her breath on my neck. She's fine, just passed out.

The display flickers and Molly appears. She looks worried. I guess I look like hell. That'd figure. She asks, "Are you okay?"

"No." I'm not gonna lie to her. I'm anything but okay. "Sound the alarm. Intruder alert, third floor, north east wing, section Alpha." I look down at Will. "Open the door. We'll come to you."

She replies, "Okay." But her tone gives her away. She's stunned.

The locks clunk and the doors slowly swing open. Turning to leave, I ask, "Have all the patrols checked in?"

"Patrol E hasn't, not in the last thirty minutes. I woke up Patrol C and sent them to look into it."

We can compare notes later. I've wasted enough time. "'Kay, we'll be there in a few," I reply and take off around the huge steel door. The alarm sounds as I ascend the stairs. I have to jostle Will again to get a hand free to open the inner door. Still nothing. She's out cold. Shifting her weight, I sprint down the hall.

I round a corner. I think I know where I am. The stairs to the first floor should be just down this hall, off to the right. I hate it down here. Getting anywhere is like trying to find the cheese.

Actually, I was a little thrown when Molly said thirty minutes. I guess everything takes forever when you're in hell. It's good it hasn't been that long. Maybe there's still a chance to recover.

I reach what I think is the right intersection and find out I'm wrong. Crap. This is just what I needed. Lost in a labyrinth. That'd be a really embarrassing way to die. Especially for me.

'Kay, _so_…every intersection looks pretty much the same. But it's gotta be around here somewhere. I follow my nose. It says left.

This place isn't that much different than the Sunnydale sewers. I should feel right at home.

I don't.

Not even remotely.

Nostalgia for sewers is where I draw the line. At least these creepy tunnels are slightly less inviting to vamps. Maybe it's the upstairs neighbors that put them off?

At the next intersection, I glance right. A sigh of relief slips out. The stairs! Or just some stairs. Who cares where they go? Up's all that matters. I run up them and lift Will a little so I can reach the lever to open the door.

My nose wrinkles. I step into what looks like the library. How'd I get here? A bookcase stands open like a door behind me. This is like something from _Clue._ 'Miss Scarlet in the library with a candlestick.' There's even a book tilted out from the shelf. It seriously dings my cliché meter.

I shake my head and rush out the door. Yeah, this is right. I'm almost there, Ops is just down the hall.

When I reach the doors, Molly pushes one of them open and motions me inside. She set up a couple cots in the corner and Amber—I think that's her name. Anyway, she's worked on me before and she's good. She stands by, waiting for her patients. I think they thought I'd be one of them. They're gonna have to get over that.

I place Will on the first cot and make eye contact with Amber. "She was shot with a blaster. I got her heart going again, but—"

Amber looks at me like I might be nuts. News flash: I probably am. She asks, "You mean like Star Wars?"

I stammer, "Huh? Wha—?"

"A _blaster_?" she parrots back at me.

_Oh_. I get what her problem is now. She wasn't around for—

I reply, "Think 'Taser' only worse."

Amber nods. We're on the same page…with that. Her expression says, 'sit down, you're next.'

I hate to disappoint her. I'd love nothing more than to stay with Will, but I can't. I've wasted enough time. My team's up there with those assholes.

I brush Will's hair out of her face, pausing to caress her cheek. Her face is warmer. That's a good sign.

I stand up, ignoring my foot. It's unnecessary, but I mumble, "Take care of her."

Molly moves to stop me. She takes one look at my face and backs down.

I grab a headset off of Xander's desk and head for the door. "Look, anything you need to say…" I put the headset on "…say it here. I'm going back. Have Patrol C meet me on the stairs." I shove the door open.

As I sprint down the hall toward the main lobby, Molly says over the headset, "Be careful."

"You know it," I reply. She knows better. They all do.

No surprise. The main hall's empty. I turn, push through the door and run up the stairs. At the top of the third flight, I bust through the door. It's not my fault they weren't quick enough. They can catch up.

Truth is, I really don't want them around. I just said that to get Molly off my back. I'm serious about Riah. I want her dead. It'd be nice not to give the girls any legitimate reasons to fear me.

But that's not really a problem now. I'm pretty sure they're gone. The hallway's dead quiet. Way quieter than usual. It's creepy, like a morgue.

I go straight to my room. It's a total wreck, but no one's here. They even took Mr. Gimpy with them and I'm pretty sure he was dead. I shake my head.

I guess, technically, that'd make me a murderer. My intentions were about as premeditated as it gets. But is it really murder if you're protecting your family?

Does that matter? I can contemplate ethics later.

As I cross the hall, three young girls run toward me. 'Patrol C,' I presume. They look like they're twelve. When they reach me, I smile and say, "Stick together. Start opening doors. Yell if you find anything."

They won't. We're the only ones here.

They chime, "Yes, ma'am," a little too 'Stepford' for comfort and head back the way they came. They make it to the door across from the stairs before I turn away. It's probably pointless to tell them that's a closet. They'll figure it out.

I poke my nose into Leigh's room. She's on the floor unconscious. "We're gonna need medics up here too." I stoop over her and feel for a pulse. She's fine.

"I'm sending someone," Molly replies.

I head for Satsu's room next. It worries me that she was tied up. When I open the door, she freaks. I put my hands up and say, "It's just me. Remember?"

She nods, still looking pretty distraught.

Ro's on the floor. I check for a pulse. Same story. She's out cold.

How in the hell did these assholes knock my entire team out without—?

I dunno.

But does it really matter? Fact is, they did. They just waltzed in here, took out Will and eight trained slayers like they were nothing. I got lucky. That's the only reason Will and me aren't in numbered cages.

I poke my nose out the door. One of the girls notices me and I motion her over. "Patrol E?" I ask.

"Yeah, they're here in the first room on the right," she replies.

Make that 'eleven slayers.'

I shake my head and say, "Okay, thanks. Just wait for the medics. I'll be in here." There's not much left to do. Just be glad that no one else was hurt.

When the girl nods, I shut the door. Facing Satsu, I ask, "What happened?"

"There were men," she says as I limp over to her bedside. "They forced the door open and shot Ro with this weird rifle that fired bolts of electricity." That's exactly what I expected her to say.

"Buffy," Molly says over my headset. I gesture to it, so Satsu gets what's going on. "Willow's awake. She'd like you to pack a bag." There's a pause. I hear Will's voice in the background, but I can't make out what she says. Finally, Molly speaks again, "She wants you to bring Satsu with you when you come downstairs."

"Huh? Why?"

"I don't know. She says she has a job for her."

I don't like it. Satsu's a loose cannon until she stops tripping. What kind of a job could Will possibly have for her? But there's no real sense arguing over the headset. It can wait.

"Okay…well, I guess you're coming with me," I say with shrug and lay the scythe down to untie the ropes. Once Satsu's free, she sits up and rubs her wrists.

Picking up the scythe, I turn to leave, offering on my way out, "I'm gonna go get dressed. You should do the same."

Her bed creaks. I anticipate an attack, but all she does is reply, "Okay."

I should give her a little more credit. Seeing things is awful, but once you get that you are, your reactions can be controlled. If anything, it might make her a little slower. She'll want to be sure. That's not much reason to worry.

The hallway's empty, but there's movement and voices coming from Leigh's room. It's just the girls.

I duck into my room and look around again. They were probably looking for the scythe. Or maybe they just tossed it out of meanness. My clothes are all over the place. I have to watch where I step. There's lots of broken glass and everything else. As I pick my way through, Molly says, "Don't pack the whole room." She giggles. "That was Willow. Not me."

In what, a dumpster? I laugh and open my closet door. Don't know what I expected, but it's a disaster just like the rest. "Alright, but ask if half's okay," I reply.

I picture myself rolling a couple of trashcans downstairs and announcing 'I'm packed.' No surprise. My daydream Will doesn't look anymore impressed than the real one would.

Molly relays my message verbatim. "I think you should take the eye roll as a negative. Might be best to pack light," she informs me, like I needed the help. But the eye roll's a good sign. Will's doing better.

After taking one of the few pairs of jeans still hanging in my closet, I work my way back across my room, grabbing the first pair of panties and bra I see. They don't match, but anything's better than what I have on.

I ask, "Any idea where we're going?" as I turn to tiptoe my way to the bathroom.

"She won't say."

That's probably best. "Tell her I hope it's Disneyland. I still haven't been."

I make it halfway there and locate a shirt before she replies, "She wants to know how you guessed."

"Just lucky sometimes," I mumble. 'Sometimes' like 'never.' It's nice of Molly to try, but my head's not even—

I shove the dirty laundry away from the bathroom door so I can close it. It's a complete disaster in here too. I strip and just add what I'm wearing to the heap. Getting cleaned up is pointless. I couldn't do that here anyway. I just dress, ignoring the bloody footprints I'm leaving on my clothes. There are more clothes. An excuse to shop will be good. Like I ever needed one before.

When I exit the bathroom, Satsu's sifting through the rubble. She's dressed for fight, but for some unfathomable reason she's decided to help me pack. She brought some other woman with her I don't recognize. A medic judging by her bag.

Gesturing to the free end of the couch, Satsu says, "Sit. I'll handle this. Someone needs to deal with that foot. You're making a mess." She looks up from folding one of my shirts and grins.

"Yeah, it's totally tragic," I snark and hobble to the couch. I'm not gonna refuse the help. At least she's wearing shoes. Boots actually. I don't get why she's in drop gear, but whatever. Gift horses…

I flop back onto the couch and put my foot up on the unbroken end of my coffee table. The medic comes over. I close my eyes and try to relax so she can do her job. My grip on the scythe tightens the moment she touches me. This is gonna be one of those.

I sigh.

After several minutes of the medic digging around inside my foot and me gnawing at the inside of my cheeks, Satsu asks, "What was the deal with that jerk in the leather jacket?"

It's good to hear her voice. Something to take my mind off the butchery might be nice. But I have no clue what she means. 'Jerk' is usually a male thing. The only one in leather was Riah.

"You mean the woman?" I mutter through clenched teeth. This just sucks. I open my eyes and glare at the medic. "Look, either give me something or just stop."

Satsu lets the medic go first. "I really can't. Not if you want to walk tonight."

Hanging my head, I shake it and roll my eyes. Good story, but I think Edward Scissorhands might do a better job than this girl. She sucks. I grumble, "Whatever. Make it fast." Remind me to fire her later.

When my eyes are closed again, Satsu answers, "That wasn't a woman."

Huh?

Fumble fingers took the hint. The pain's not half as bad. I can form a complete thought without—

She gouges. I wince. It's all I can do not to kick her. She just had to prove me wrong.

Uh, yeah…so let's take a chance. Maybe try a sentence. A short one. Probably incomplete. "Describe him." Wondering where Satsu's going with this is the only thing keeping me from strangling—

"Umm…about five-eight to five-ten, heavy build, but not really fat." She crosses the room before saying more. "Well, maybe a little, but not grossly so." It sounds like she's adding stuff as it occurs to her. "Short dark hair, big nose, beady eyes." She picks up a piece of clothing and shakes it out. "His nose might've been broken once." Glass crunches under her boot. "Sideburns." She returns to the couch and lays a pile of clothing down. Picking up the first item to fold, she reflects, "I don't know. He was a pretty average guy."

Sounds average. I'm drawing a blank. One thing's for sure, Riah knew me and I've never seen her before in my life. But she was the only one in leather.

This is just weird. I need to talk to Will. I'm not sure it's even possible.

When Satsu finishes folding and packing the pile, she goes back to the scavenger hunt. 'Grateful' begins to describe how I feel about her. Now this other girl's on my last nerve.

"He kicked the door open and made a snide comment. Something like…" she changes her voice, mocking a cocky man "…'Whoa, ladies, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?'…" I grin "…then he told us not to let him 'disturb us,' like we were doing anything except talking." Her impression's just too funny. It almost makes me forget that Leatherface is still trying to hollow out my foot. "When Ro moved, the soldier with him shot her. I expected him to shoot me too, but I guess he didn't see the need."

A few things bump and clatter. I almost turn around to see what Satsu's up to, but the commotion ends and she goes on with her story before I get there. "Our imposter wasn't a soldier. I'm sure of that. Why he was with them is anyone's guess." She returns carrying another stack of clothes. Working to stow them away for me, she says, "It wasn't really what he said. It was how he said it and the looks he gave us."

"Yeah, I know the type. He sounds like a real pig," I mutter. The last person I dealt with like that was Caleb. But he's kind of dead.

There was Warren. The description fits and the behavior _definitely_ rings a bell. But same story…

I tilt my head and consider the facts. Technically, I'm dead. What Satsu sees is zombie me. If it was Warren, it'd track that she'd see the dead version too. I ask, "Was there anything else?" It almost feels like I'm making some headway. But getting my hopes up over this is just stupid. If I'm right, things are actually worse.

"Nothing much," she replies, pausing to finish packing my bag. There are only a couple things left. "Well, when he entered my room, he didn't have any skin."

Shit!

I was right. I hate being right!

Dammit!

I take a deep breath.

Alright, I'm over it. Like it or not, Riah's Warren.

How'd that bastard survive? I watched Will kill him.

Yeah, and I was ready to kill him again tonight. I didn't know how to feel about that then. And I'm really not sure how to feel about it now. 'Conflicted' pretty much covers it. She scared the hell out of me.

But whatever I felt, it was never about him. I won't admit that. Will doesn't need me to help her justify what she did. It was wrong, even if he was a total scumbag. I'd totally get it if he was a vamp, but he's not. No reason at all. He's just that evil.

Now he's popping out of the woodwork wearing a slayer's skin…with Amy, no less…and soldiers working with him…or worse, maybe _for_ him?

This is bad.

I really need to talk to Will, but Satsu's isn't done. I should stop wigging and pay attention. "…thought I was just seeing things again, that the version with the skin was the real guy."

She gives me an expectant look. I need to say something.

What should I say?

Uh…

The truth works. "I think I know who it is." I glance at my foot. Thank God, the butcher's bandaging it.

I wipe the tears from my eyes. I really need to blow my nose. It can wait. "Do you always see zombie me?" I ask purely out of curiosity.

"Not always."

"What else do you see?"

"Uh, it's hard to describe," Satsu mumbles, headed for my closet. "I guess it's fair to say that you and Willow have a lot in common."

Sitting on her heel, she looks through my shoes. She takes out a pair of flip-flops and some tennis shoes. Returning to the couch, she passes me the sandals and sets my bag down. As she opens the outside pocket, I try a good old fashioned leading question. "That's not really an answer. You sure there isn't more?" Sometimes they actually work. Not often, but it's worth a shot.

After packing my shoes, she grabs my bag and walks around the couch. "Look, Buffy, if you really want to know the truth about yourself, you know where to look. I'm not some sort of fortune cookie," she says.

And sometimes they piss people off. She's leaving. I turn in time to see her stop in the doorway.

She lingers just long enough to mumble, "I hope it works out for you."

Huh?

What the hell was that about?

I give up.

Her voice echoes from the hallway. "I'll be in Ops."


	12. Gravity: Point 5g

**Gravity  
.5g**

* * *

I burst through the doors to Ops and call out "Will," sounding a little too excited. She turns to face me. The fact that she's less than ten feet away makes me feel that much sillier.

The cots are gone. They were much farther away, right? In the corner or something?

'Yes,' and self-justification—no matter how pointless and lame—is still one of my few strong points.

Will and Amber and another two other witches sit on the floor in a circle. I dunno what Amber did, but Will looks a whole lot better.

I smile, but as usual, any relief I feel can't last. I have to tell her. "That slayer—the one who kidnapped you—"

She says, "It's Warren," totally cutting me off…and stealing my thunder.

Why am I always the last to know?

At least, Molly looks amused. I live to entertain the people in Ops.

I have to ask, "Where's Satsu? She said she'd be here."

Will replies, "She's with Dawn."

"She's what? Of all the—"

I was working up a solid rant, but she just cuts me off again like it's nothing. "Buffy, if anyone can help, it's Satsu." The truly sad part…she doesn't even raise her voice that much. "The cure made her immune to the curse." When did she figure this out? "She's going to take Dawn somewhere safe and work on getting what we need to treat Xander. It's the best hope we have."

Well, she's right about one thing, getting Dawn out of here is good. They always come at me through my family. But there's a glaring flaw in her brilliant plan. I have to ask, "What makes you think Satsu can get anything out of Dawn? She's been…"

Will interjects, "I'm sorry, Buffy, but I really need to concentrate."

I finish my thought, mumbling under my breath, "…a real pain in my ass," as Will talks over me, stating the obvious, "We need to leave too." It's nice to feel loved.

She combs her fingers through her hair, probably searching for patience. Sure looks like it. "Honestly, I don't know for sure that she can." Why she tries to answer—? "All I've got are hunches, just like you. But I do know that if anyone's going to get through to Dawn, it probably won't be either of us." She shrugs. "She likes Satsu. It's a good plan. The best one we have. I was headed there when…"

I feel bad for interrupting. "What if Dawn pulls another disappearing act?" But it's not like she's still talking. She just kind of petered out and got all sullen. And it is my turn.

I need to know she's thought this through.

Who am I kidding? All she does is think things through. What I'm really after is peace of mind. That's what I need.

She mumbles under her breath, "I just hope there's time. I shouldn't have slept."

Yeah, and I don't think that was a choice. She pretty much passed out. But I doubt she wants my opinion, so I keep my voice down too. "You were exhausted."

She acts like she doesn't hear me…which of course, was the point.

The thing I still don't get is why she put Satsu before Xander. You'd think—

I'm not gonna ask. Her now-lifting gloom would probably become a permanent feature if I did. Besides, she still hasn't gotten around to—

"She won't." She sounds so certain. I don't see how, but I don't butt in. "Not unless she feels threatened. That was defensive. She wigged and the gorgon part of her took over. She went where her instincts told her it was safe. That happened because of us."

When she says _us_, I hear _me_. Dawn flipped out because of _me_.

Will shrugs again as if to say, 'it's no big.' It is to me. Anyone else getting hurt over my baggage just won't work for me. Especially when said 'baggage' is some ridiculous case of sibling rivalry that I don't even understand. I can't seem to say anything right around Dawn. I haven't been able to for years.

But maybe my problem's just people at large. Will's as much of a mystery or worse. Why she grins, looking suddenly all too amused—?

Clueless.

I'm not. Not even in the least.

She says, "Besides, I told Satsu to knock her out if she gets upset."

_Oh_, maybe that's it? Will picked the one who could actually stand up to Dawn.

That's as much of a 'would' as a 'could.' Xander _would_ feel the same way I did. Hitting Dawn sucked.

And she'll be on her best behavior around someone she barely knows. Around us she's—

I don't want to think 'a bitch,' but that's the first thing that comes to mind. Sometimes, not always. She has her moments.

That actually makes total sense, especially if Will knew about the immunity.

Funny, it feels like she's waiting for me to catch up. When I look her in the eye to let her know I'm there, she says, "Don't worry. It'll be fine." Her expression turns sympathetic. "Dawn won't leave if she's having a good time. She won't have any reason to. And if something does go wrong, we'll know about it."

She's right.

Okay, one more question. "The gorgons: are they something we need to worry about?" The last thing I need is to add them to my list of problems. My list is fine without them.

She says through a laugh, "Uh, _no…_if we stay on our side of the fence, they should stay on theirs. But we need to try and keep the dog off their lawn from now on."

I must look confused because she tries to help the slow kid out. "They have their own realm, sort of like the 'world without shrimp' only with shrimp and gorgons too. There's lots of other nasty stuff there. It's not a nice place, even for a quick visit. But you got that."

Oh…'kay…so, I _did_. I picked up on the 'demon dimension' thing while we were there. It wasn't that hard. What I want to know is what's actually keeping them on 'their side of the fence'?

I don't bother to clarify. If Will felt that they were an issue, she'd tell me. So I guess we're just not that interesting. That's what's keeping them off 'our lawn.'

Why is it that I always have a hard time believing that demons don't find us interesting? It's almost insulting.

It's also stupid. I wish they'd all lose interest. My life would get a whole lot easier.

Crossing the room, I take a seat in the circle next to her and lay the scythe across my lap. "Let's get outta here," I say, offering her my hand. "Take what you need." I have no clue where we're headed, but it really doesn't matter. Not if the others are safe.

Molly walks over and passes me my backpack. As I hitch it over my shoulder, she says, "Have a nice vacation. Say _hi_ to Mickey for me."

"Will do," I reply with a grin. The room goes blurry. I can't hold my eyes open. I feel all tingly and warm. It's so nice and comfy, I could go to sleep.

Gradually, the comfy fades and I open my eyes. I'm sitting alone on the floor in some strange living room. The place has a really homey feel, like Mom's did, only different. It's not at all what I expected. I'm not even sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. I thought we were running off to somewhere remote, not moving to the suburbs.

A refrigerator opens in the next room and Will calls out, "Want something to drink?" She shouldn't be waiting on me. Surely Amber told her to take it easy for a while.

"No, I'm fine," I reply as I check out the room. The stuff here's way more, umm…_artsy_ than Mom's was. That's kind of a funny thing to think. Mom ran an art gallery. But I dunno, it's just got a really different feel. Less classic, more modern. Airy and uncluttered. I like it.

Will passes through the dining room. I lose sight of her when she rounds the far end of a large glass table. But I can still hear her. She's climbing a flight of stairs.

The real weirdness is the tree trunk that grows up through the floor between the living room and dining room. The house was built around it. I've never seen anything like it. I stand up to get a better look and see that it supports a second story loft. That's just nifty. And it explains the high ceiling.

This is _her_ place. It has to be. It didn't occur to me that she'd actually have a home. I'm not sure what I thought, but now I just feel stupid. Like that's new.

She turns on a faucet upstairs. The sound is amplified by the acoustics of the room.

Where are we? Rounding the sectional couch, I go to one of the bay windows at the far end of the living room and pull back the sheer curtains. There's a large deck. But other than that all I see are tree limbs. We must be on the second story. I wonder what's below. Maybe a garage? That'd make sense.

Retracing my steps, I pass through an archway next to her entertainment center and into the foyer. I set the scythe and my pack next to the front door and step outside.

It's almost too much.

Butterflies of every imaginable color bask in pools of sunlight that shines through breaks in the leafy canopy. A breeze disturbs the tree limbs causing them scrape the edges of the deck as the sway. The breeze disturbs the butterflies too. They flutter around.

Except for the limbs, forest noises and bird song, it's ungodly quiet here. Too quiet. The air's crisp and clean. One thing's for sure, we're nowhere near a city.

A tingle runs down my spine. Something's wrong. No clue what. This place is almost too ideal. There's even a cedar hot tub built into the other end of the deck. What could possibly be wrong with that?

When I turn to go back inside, something bites my arm. I swat at it and a tiny voice cries out in pain.

I gasp and look around. My hand—there's a fine violet powder on it. It looks like pollen. Whatever that was, I hurt it.

A flapping sound fills the air. Colors swirl at the edge of my vision. When I look up, that's all I see. A flurry of brilliant color.

The air around me's thick with butterflies. They weave around me, frantically flowing in and out. It's beautiful, but I'm in trouble.

That was no butterfly. But it's impossible to make out what they are. Fairies, nymphs, pixies…is there any difference?

My arm stings, first one spot, then another and another. So fast.

I don't want to hurt them. But I don't know what to do.

I swing, batting the air, trying to make it stop.

My arms, hands, neck and face burn.

The door's here somewhere. Groping, I turn around, desperate to find it. But I find Will instead. I pull her close and she snaps, "Stop!"

Stunned, I release her, but she doesn't let go of me.

My skin feels like it's on fire. It's like bad déjà vu. I tremble.

Wrapping my arms around her, I look into her eyes. She's angry, but so…

She's _so_ beautiful.

My head swims from all the movement. I feel giddy. The burning fades, turning to tingling. She meets my gaze and growls, "I said _stop_ and I meant it." But she's not talking to me.

As we stare into each other's eyes, her expression softens. It's clear, for the first time maybe, just how much she cares. She loves me.

The impulse terrifies me, but I have to listen. I'm so scared I'll screw this up.

Leaning closer, I search her face, giving her time to withdraw. I close my eyes when our lips meet. She doesn't resist. I gently caress her lips with my own.

Once.

It's wonderful. So soft and warm. Delicate. She doesn't push me away. My confidence builds.

Twice.

Harder, greedy for more, I tease her lips with my tongue, hoping she'll open up.

She shoves me away.

I stumble back.

Her face fills with disbelief. "What are you doing?" she asks.

Peels of shrill laughter fill the air.

I hang my head. I can't look. I mumble, "I'm sorry. I—" I struggle to find an excuse. There isn't one. I was wrong.

Tiny wings brush my skin. It seems like this should actually hurt. Not just emotionally. Not just_ embarrassment_. But the stupid fairies leave me alone.

Will hangs her head. Shaking it, she snickers. But when she speaks, her actions and voice don't match, "Y'know, this is just like you." She's angry. "I get that you're confused. But you can't just latch onto the first thing you see and expect it to make things better. It doesn't work that way."

That's not what this is and she knows it. She's the one who's scared. Exasperated, I meet her eyes and fume, "That's not even what this is about. I saw—"

She snaps, "You saw what?" cutting me off again.

I'm sick of this! She thinks—

A gust blows the fairies away. They tumble as the wind circles around her, swirling into vortex. She bows her head. "You only see what I want you to see."

Wind is all I hear. Her lips move, but her voice—I don't _actually_ hear it. It echoes through my mind.

Her hand covers her face. She combs her fingers through her hair, slowly looking up. The skin below her hand turns pale. Fine veins darken and rise. In the wake of her hand, her hair turns black. She opens her eyes. I expect them to be black too, but they aren't even there. Dark voids swirl in the spaces where they should be.

I blink and it all goes away. There's a smile on her face. She looks exactly like she did in my picture. She asks, "Is this better?" But it's clear that she's mocking me.

I clamp my mouth shut and grit my teeth. You fucking bitch!

Her smile fades. She fades. As the color drains away, I shout, "If this is all I mean to you, then _why_?" Gradually she becomes the Willow I saw in the fog last night.

She thinks I'm impressed by this shit?

I've wanted to ask this for years. The wait's over. It's time. "Why do you always have to save me?" I've never understood that. "Why can't you just let go? 'Cause I've been looking for a reason and I can't find one. I have no idea why I'm still here."

Her expression's completely impassive. She's the ice queen from some fairytale.

And I don't give a shit. I'm gonna speak my mind. "I don't get it. You don't want me, but you can't let me go. Make me understand why!"

She seethes, "If you just need some experiment," growing madder by the second. "If you just have to have some sort of Sapphic conquest for your list, there's this little Asian girl who's—"

Totally stunned, I exclaim, "Oh, my God," biting each word off like curse. So, that's what that was about? 'I hope it works out.'

Shit!

Satsu's in love with me. And from the sound of things, probably jealous of Will. Just what I need. More drama.

I take a sec to get my head together. That's so messed up. But I don't love Satsu. I mean, _yeah_, she's cute. I could have a fling. But that's not what I want.

Finally, I say, "That's what you think this is about? I couldn't care less about that. I mean, I'm curious, _yeah_…but you don't know shit." It's my turn to play with my hair. I'm afraid I can't put on some impressive show with mine. I sweep it out of my eyes. Making a fist, I pull just to feel the pain. It helps me focus. "If that's what you think, you don't know me at all." I let me hair go. "I love you, Will." My hand falls to my side.

She changes again. I'm not sure what to believe. She's right. She only shows me what she wants me to see. This time it's sorrow. She opens her mouth to speak and it's so weird. All she says is, "I can't." The white hair and pale skin make her look like some Hollywood rendition of an elf or something. The sullen act doesn't match.

She mumbles, "I'm so tired, Buffy."

I almost don't hear her. But it doesn't—

The smile.

Oh! My! God!

Again!

How'd she know?

My head spins. I reel to catch up.

That's it!

That's really it!

Shit! That's what she's been hiding!

She—

That thing with Satsu's weird. But maybe Will picked something up. Maybe she noticed something I didn't. She never was good at that stuff, but maybe she learned something new.

You never know.

But that picture? There's just no way. She couldn't know about that unless—

«Unless I could read your mind?»

Fuck!

You knew!

Unbelievable!

You listened to all that and you—?

«You think I wanted to? You think I didn't try not to? You know what this is like.»

My knees feel weak. I sink onto the deck and pull my legs up to my chest. I can't even bring myself to look at her. I stare at my feet instead.

Everything I thought was—

«I see the moon and the moon sees me.»

How could you possibly know how I felt and say that shit?

«The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see.»

She slumps onto the deck facing me. I find the strength to look at her face. She just pisses me off. That's a mask. It's not who she really is.

Turn back! I'm sick of that face.

«Goddess bless the moon and Goddess bless me.»

You say it doesn't matter. That you show me the face you want me to see. Well, show me another.

«Goddess bless the—»

"Stop it!" I shout. "I don't know what's up with that stupid rhyme, but I'm sick of it! I'm sick of the games! And the bullshit! And the lies!"

Tears flow down her cheeks as she mumbles, "I'm tired."

What do you mean you're tired?

She whispers, "I'm tired of pretending. I'm tired of being what everyone needs me to be."

Let me guess. You got in over your head and this is the price you paid?

She qualifies her statement, "What _you_ need me to be," like she can put this off on me.

You talk about me like I'm so predictable. One little taste of power and you've gotta have it all.

«You're right. That's exactly what happened.»

"What'd you do?" I ask, twitching with fury.

"I loved you."

Three little words, that's all she has to say for herself.

That's all she _needs_ to say to completely disarm me. I hate it when she does that!

But the four that follow are just too much. "I still love you." They completely piss me off.

I shout, "Oh no! You don't get to blame me for this."

Crossing her ankles, she pulls her knees to her chest and stares at her feet. "I'm not. You asked," she whispers.

I look at her feet too. I wonder where she got those sandals. They're cute. She'd think I was nuts if I asked.

But I guess I just did. She doesn't bother to answer.

I glance at her face. She's changed again. Now she looks like she did sophomore year. She probably did that to make things easier on me. I really wish she wouldn't.

She holds my gaze and asks, "Do you remember how this all started?"

I'm not sure which _this_ she means, so I just shake my head.

She whispers, "It started when I ensouled Angel."

I return my attention to her feet. They haven't changed. It's sad, but they might just be the one real thing about Willow. At least they're pretty. She always has had pretty hands and feet. That's really rare. She never talks about it. They just always are. With me, that's a constant struggle. For her, it comes naturally.

She asks, "Do you know why I did that?"

And I state the simple truth, "Because you wanted me to be happy." Like everything else that got turned all around, upside-down and backward.

"We went on. Every time there was a new problem, I tried to fix it. I did what I could. And when that wasn't enough, I did more than I could. Do you understand what that is?"

I do. You were devoted to our cause. But we both know how Sunnydale was. We all had to do more than we could.

"But I could've walked away. Do you understand why I didn't?"

I think so.

"Oz understood," she whispers, taking my hand and extending my arm. It's covered in little red welts. She looks them over as she goes on, "He knew that I loved him dearly. But he also understood that I love you too. He had to share me." She stands up and helps me to my feet. Opening the door, she leads me inside. We walk through the other archway into the dining room and up the spiral stairs as she reflects, "But he thought it was different. He didn't really know how I felt. He got the devotion, but there was other stuff—"

He couldn't get his head around the idea of you as a lesbian. I know how that feels.

"Yeah, I kind of kept the naughty thoughts to myself," she admits with a snicker.

With the trudging, me in front and her behind…I try to picture her picturing whatever she pictured. Did she—?

That's _so_ not fair! You've been thinking naughty thoughts and I—

We reach the top of the stairs. She pushes past me, giving me a sidelong glance. Her expression's just…

The picture gets worse. I mean, I didn't get to—

Umm…I mean, there was naughty thought having and I wasn't—

Oh, I don't know what I mean.

_Yeah_…that foot—the one that has a timeshare in my mouth—it needed a vacation.

This must be her study. I think she has more books than I've ever seen. It's intimidating. The mountain almost takes my mind off, umm…

"Then there was Tara. Oz finally got the picture when he figured that out." I'm not quite sure why she continues to talk out loud. She obviously doesn't need to.

Now I, on the other hand, should really take a vow of silence. Not that it would help. My brain should be quarantined. I may just need to face it. I'm not safe around telepaths. If I can't be stupid in my own head, where can I be stupid?

Uh…

Wait! Please don't answer that.

Thankfully, she ignores me. She's probably used to it.

We walk without incident through her bedroom and into the bathroom. She gestures to a stool. I sit down and she turns away to go through the medicine cabinet. "The day I came to tell you about her, I wasn't in love with her," she says. "Love's like that. It takes time, y'know? It starts with all those warm, fuzzy little feelings and then it just grows."

Taking out a jar, she sits at my feet. "It was you," she says, meeting my eyes. "And you didn't even notice me." Avoiding her is pretty impossible here, but I give it my best shot. "I needed you to notice." She removes the lid, setting the jar aside. But she holds onto the lid in her hand, gripping it loosely in her palm while she speaks. "I don't know what I thought." I stare at it, mostly because I can't face her. "Maybe part of me hoped that I'd admit to having a thing for another girl, you'd say you had a thing too and we'd go get Mexican." She sets the lid down. "It was naïve. Like something from a stupid romantic comedy. I just missed you so much."

Turning, she opens a drawer and reaches inside, pulling out a pair of scissors. She takes my right hand, cuts the bandage away and sets the scissors down.

I couldn't be happier to see something go. That bandage was filthy. Underneath it, there's a layer of delicate new skin where the wounds were. It's pink and raw. She touches it and it tingles. I have to stop myself to keep from pulling away.

"I was hurting and Tara saw me. She understood." She moves to my wrist and dabs a little ointment on one of my lumps. "I told you how I felt. And you wigged. You couldn't understand. So, I went to Tara and I'll never regret that decision." There are lots of lumps. I look like I was attacked by a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. She keeps going, putting a little ointment on each of them. "You were so busy chasing normalcy, you barely even saw me. But what I had to offer you was anything but normal. At least to us, at that point."

As she turns my wrist over in her hands, I whisper, "I'm so sorry." But she should know that. I thought about this earlier. I wonder what else I thought about. It can't be good. I bow my head as my face flushes hot. It's okay. My spots are way more interesting than the rest of me, even if there are only a few. She treats the ones on my inner arm and releases my wrist.

Taking my left wrist, she whispers, "I didn't. Not any more than I could help. That's what the nursery rhyme's about. I repeat it so I don't hear. It's the only thing I've found that helps."

I focus on our hands. I want to at least to put her at ease. Glancing up to meet her gaze, I say, "I remember how that was. I get why you wouldn't want anyone to know." But the truth slips out. "Even _you_ treated me differently. It hurt." And I'm not sure that helped.

She nods and goes back to working on my arm. I don't see why. I really want a bath. It's just gonna wash off.

"It soaks in really quickly," she says, pointing at the first spot she did. I touch it and my skin's dry. "I want you to spend at least an hour a day in the hot tub. It'll help. I'll get you a suit when we're done."

I smile and say, "Well, that's a lot to ask, but I think I can manage. That is, if your little friends will let me."

"I'll talk to them. It'll be fine. They know you, or at least they know your name. They just didn't understand who you were," she says and moves on to my feet.

I slip off my sandals. Picking up the scissors, she starts to cut the bandage away, but stops when I slowly lift my foot. I just want to help her out. I think it'll be easier if I cross my legs.

Going back to cutting, she says, "You asked me how this happened. Really our relationships have almost nothing to do with that."

She puts the scissors down and carefully peels back the gauze. Lifting and turning my foot, she looks at the bottom. Her expression pretty much tells me that she's as happy with Bloody Mary's work as I was.

She sighs and moves on to the lumps on the top of my feet. "Things really started to fall apart right before you died. I was doing way more than I should have. Everyone kept trying to warn me, especially Tara. But I wouldn't listen. I didn't think I had much of a choice, considering…" She finishes my feet and moves on to my neck. "You were right, y'know? I do abuse power. I always have. I'm an addict. Actually, I'm the worst kind of addict. The kind that can never be clean again."

I look up and she dabs some of the ointment on my nose. My nose too? I wrinkle it and she says, "'Fraid so." She takes my chin in her hand and works on my face. That's just evil.

She grins and I ask, "How do you deal with that?"

"I try to make sure my motives are pure before I do anything. There's not much else I can do. Magic's a part of me now," she replies and turns to leave. "I'll get you a suit. Stay put." A few moments later, she leans in the door and places a blue bikini on the counter. "There's a robe on the door if you want it. I'll meet you downstairs."

I change as quickly as I can and put on her robe. After folding my clothes and putting them on the hamper, I exit the bathroom. Maybe I'm just being weird, but mixing my clothes in with hers seems rude. I find my way downstairs. There are huge holes in her story and I'm anxious to hear the rest.

She meets me at the door wearing a robe. As she leads me outside, her story resumes, "When you died, part of me died too. My entire world fell apart. I was willing to do anything to get you back. There was no price too high. I was so selfish, but I didn't see that until it was too late."

Walking around the hot tub, she whispers, "And I got you back. But the price I paid…" trailing off as she slips into the water. Once she's settled, she finishes her thought. "I lost you first. But when I lost myself, Tara finally gave up and I lost her too. We were trying to get that back when—"

I'm glad that she falls flat. She doesn't really need to explain. I was there.

I lower myself into the water as she says, "I know that." She stalls, waiting for me to settle in…and watching me just a little too closely. "I don't need to tell you most of this. But what I do need you to see is that this was a progression. It didn't just happen overnight. It literally took years. Each time I stepped over the line, I moved further away from who I was."

I ask, "And closer to…?" leaving her to fill in the blank.

"What I am now," she replies. Her answer's blunt, quick and cryptic. It doesn't really tell me a damned thing. I think she's trying to say 'less human.' I have trouble imagining that. She's still one of the most human people I know.

Well, that was eloquent. Good thing she helps me out. I need it. "It's not about less or more humanity. There are just certain powers that people shouldn't have." That makes total sense.

The water smells really funny.

Leaning back, she closes her eyes and says, "It's good for you. It's a mineral bath, sort of like a hot spring."

I wrinkle my nose and ask, "Is this like that tea?"

"Exactly like the tea. Only this is good for the outside, not so much the inside."

I snicker, but she picks up like she never left off. "I saw something no human being was ever meant to see that spring. That was my fault. It was the end of a very long spiral." When she falls silent, I wonder why I was smiling. Not just why, but how.

Her voice cracks when she says, "The only one who never lost faith was Xander…" tears leak from the corners of her eyes "…and I failed him when he needed me most. I was just so afraid that someone would find out what I am, I was willing to—"

I whisper, "It's okay, Will." Her eyes snap open and she glares at me. I backpedal, trying to make my meaning plain. "Well, not _okay_ so much, but I understand. That's a really tough decision."

When she looks away, I feel like I've been pardoned. I close my eyes, try to clear my mind and just focus on the sound of her voice. "Remember when I returned from England? I tried to tell you then. Even after six months of struggling to learn control, I could barely function. You should've noticed. But even my Houdini act wasn't obvious enough for you."

I'm sorry. I was just trying to keep us alive.

Ignoring me entirely, she asks, "Do you remember what happened?"

I scoop up some water and splash my face before I respond, "I asked you for more." It still smells funny. But it does the job. The breeze cools it, taking some of the heat from my face. I feel horrible. But there were no other options. I didn't have a choice.

"I know you didn't," she whispers. That's cold comfort, but I'll take it. "That's why I gave you everything I had…" the glamour drops "…but this is what I am now."

Even in the sunlight, her eyes are hard to look at. I force myself. She's still beautiful, but it's a really different kind of beautiful. The sort of thing stupid people call 'exotic' because they have no idea what else to say. But she speaks and it's still the same old Willow. "I touched something that day that changed me. I've been using glamours to hide what I am ever since."

I think I get it now. Why she talks. She does it to feel normal.

I have to ask. "So, even right after—?" She seemed fine. Relieved even, just like the rest of us.

Closing her eyes, she replies, "I _was_ relieved…" leaning back in the tub "…but there was more. I could hear all of you. It scared me. I thought I was losing my mind. But I played along and prayed it'd go away."

I follow her example. The water feels good. I'm even getting used to the smell.

Her voice is soft and sluggish. "I cast the glamour and played the part before Kennedy even left the room. I'm glad I caught it. I saw my reflection in the scythe and knew…" She stops to swallow and I have to look. She's crying. I feel like an ass, but there's nothing I can do. Just listen. "I knew she wouldn't leave if she thought something was wrong and you needed her. She was the only one who ever saw me like this. She assumed I changed back. And I never gave her a reason to think anything different."

I don't want to push, but I wonder what happened to Kennedy.

"The same thing that was happening with you. She was suspicious. I can't be that close to someone and not—"

I open my big mouth and totally interrupt her, "But you said she died. Why would you say that?" Huge surprise, that doesn't go over well.

The water sloshes when she sits up. I can't bring myself to look. It's obvious that she's mad.

She takes a deep breath, slowly letting it go before she responds, "There are some things I'd like to keep to myself."

I swallow, feeling every bone and muscle in my throat move around the lump. It's not going anywhere. When I look up, the tears are gone. Her expression's completely neutral.

She meets my eyes and says, "One day, maybe. I don't even know why I said that. Everything was just so—"

I force a smile as much for myself as for her and whisper, "It's okay. I get it." I don't want to give her sympathy. I know how that is. She wouldn't want it. But I can show her some kindness. Maybe it'll work out. I can help her now that I know.

"Don't you see, Buffy?" she asks and looks away. "What kind of a relationship do you think—?" Her voice cracks. She stops to clear her throat. "We'd have no secrets. We can't have a relationship like that." She wipes her eyes. "You're too late."

She stops, but I hear the unspoken. There isn't a person alive she can get close to.

«Demons.»

The word makes my jaw drops. That's right. I remember now. It's like the mirror.

She giggles, looking truly amused.

"What?" I ask through a smile. Still infectious, dammit. She just told me we can't be together and I'm grinning like an idiot. What's worse, she couldn't come up with a better reason. I must be driving her crazy. All those absent thoughts—it's like hell. No wonder she kept knocking me out. I would've done the same thing back then if I could've.

Umm…

Without the violence.

Thing is, now I know how she feels—

Her stare becomes a glare. "You'll drop it," she snaps. I look up, on the verge of tears and her expression loses its edge. She whispers, "Please, try to find someone that makes you happy. If you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me. I need to know that you're alright."

I nod. But I can't even think. I can't—

"What was so funny?" I ask, praying we can change this. Maybe laugh again. It might be too much to ask. But I have to try.

She admits, "I actually tried to find a demon dimension I could be happy in." Shaking her head, she rolls her eyes. "Pathetic, I know. The funny comes in when you use those words in the same sentence."

I just can't stand it. I look away. 'Desperate' isn't anywhere close to 'funny.'

She whispers, "I know."

I stare into the tree limbs. The fairies are gone or hiding. We're alone.

Her voice finds strength. There's almost a trace of a smile in it when she says, "It's really desperate when you consider how most of them feel about me. They see me as every bit the monster that I see them. I created an army to destroy them."

Really alone. The rest of the picture comes into view. She's—

She murmurs, "I'm damned, Buffy." Her voice has this silky quality that makes my spine tingle. She laughs, but there's nothing happy about it. "All I can do is watch."

I turn to face her. Her expression's cold. I'm not even sure what to say, but I try to keep her talking. Maybe it'll help. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said," she replies. The wind blows her hair. She reaches up to sweep it back. "I can't even take responsibility for what I've done."

"So, you watch?"

She shuts her eyes, bearing down. The muscles around them twitch. As she lets a little of the tension go, a harsh scowl hardens her face. "I watch you," she admits.

Her eyes flutter open. As she meets my gaze I remember the graveyard. That was just too creepy. I can't imagine her ever making me feel that way. That can't be it. But I have to ask, "That was you?"

"Yes."

"But I don't remember," I stammer, struggling to find a way to make myself plain. "There weren't any times before that, umm…like that."

Some of her sharpness gives way to worry. "There was something else," she replies. "_Someone_ else." Her brow furrows. "I wasn't alone."

Oh, great! Well, that's peachy. Just my luck, I find out that I really do have a guardian angel, but she's just as clueless as I am.

She says, "I mean I wasn't the only one watching. I tried to figure out who else was there, but they were a big old chicken. Every time I got close, they ran away."

'Kay, so…no less creepy…but I shouldn't be surprised. I'm a celebrity in the underworld. You have figure there's gonna be paparazzi. It's my turn to scowl.

Anxious to change topics, I ask, "So, how'd you end up here?"

She whispers, "There are only so many places you can run."

Yeah, I hate my life.


End file.
